Spilled Ink
by Butane Baby
Summary: AU: For years Bulma Brief has been the belle and bulldog reporter within her busy New York City newsroom. Now her boss is forcing her to work with a sharp-tongued newcomer with his own impressive set of accomplishments. Mature themes/language, with elements of suspense and hurt/comfort. - ON HOLD
1. Shared Space

Bulma Brief entered Capsule Media Corporation's sprawling newsroom in a rotten mood. Her new silk blouse now had a giant brown coffee stain, courtesy of a distracted, poorly dressed idiot she met in the lobby earlier that morning. Worse, the jerk didn't have the proper gentlemanly manners to apologize when _he_ bumped into _her_. Instead, he rudely called Bulma 'rude' and blamed her because she was using her smartphone. She thought this was an utterly ridiculous response. The place was teeming with reporters, magazine writers, and television personalities. Of course people were glued to their smartphones! That's how work got done!

She cursed angrily to herself. Now she had to wear her Giorgio Armani suit jacket outside, all day, in ninety-degree weather, and she had at least three more people left to interview - all men who weren't exactly the most emotionally intelligent guys. She wouldn't give these Neanderthals an excuse to inspect her modest breast cleavage more than they regularly did. She wanted them focused, and she had to meet her story deadline by Friday. Her restless and eternally grumpy chain-smoking editors also needed to let her do her magic. Her reporting team had won three Pulitzer Prizes and other prestigious awards over the last fifteen years. One would think her overseers had learned by now to leave her alone to get the job done. She usually picked one or two adventurous young reporters to work on big stories, too, and they never failed to rise to the challenge. Two helped with Pulitzer-winning stories, which eventually helped them launch successful careers. Bulma's career took off that way as a young reporter, after a hack named Jackson M. Roshi gave her several chances to prove herself by working closely with him. Her raw talent and tireless work ethic were stellar. And, unlike others in the newsroom, he didn't give a shit that she was the wild child from one of the wealthiest families on the East Coast. Jack was also her worst and best critic when she made mistakes - or screwed up big time. Besides her father, she looked up to him the most.

One of her first big stories led to the multiple arrests of corrupt businessmen who worked for what had been a highly respected banking company. She celebrated until Jack scolded her: _"Kiddo, you're only as good as your next story - and remember, duchess, you are the reporter. Don't make yourself the focus, and stop eating my goddamn French fries! Doesn't your trust fund allow grocery shopping?"_

Jack was now managing editor in the news division, overseeing daily operations and the unavoidable personality clashes among his staff. Bulma remained his protégé, but he couldn't afford to play favorites with any of his employees now that he was the boss. He also planned to hire new workers to shake up everyone in the office, including his rock star reporter. He wanted Bulma to forget prize-winning for a while to dirty her pretty little French-manicured hands in hard news again. If she didn't want to be an editor like him - which she avoided like the plague - then those were his terms. He leaned on his office door for a few minutes thinking about the possible consequences of his plans for her.

"Hey, duchess! Get in my office now. I got someone for you to meet."

Bulma, who didn't bother looking up, shoved a banana into her mouth. "Oh, come on, Jack. You know I can't right now. I'm meeting my source for that story we discussed two hours ago. He's been patient with me."

"Well that's a good quality to have," Jack replied sarcastically. "I'm sure he'll understand why you're late then - and Christ on a cracker, can you talk _first_ before chewing with your mouth open, Bulma? That's disgusting. If I didn't know who you parents were, I'd swear that you were raised by honey badgers."

Everyone nearby laughed while a pleasant grin crept across Bulma's face. After giving Jack the middle finger, she stuffed her banana peel into a paper cup - one of many littering her desk - and slowly put on her jacket.

Jack frowned as the lavender-haired beauty casually skipped to his office. "Oh, that's real classy, Bulma, really classy. I still run this department, you know. How about showing some respect?"

"Let's make a deal then," Bulma said dryly. "I'll stop giving you vulgar hand signs when you tell the other guys and gals here to stop throwing darts at your picture in the dining hall. Now tell me…tell me…"

Bulma suddenly choked on her words after recognizing the man sitting near Jack's desk. He had already poured a glass of water for both of them. Bulma felt her cheekbones changing colors - angry colors - that were overpowering her expensive makeup job. Her lips shut tighter than a vault door.

"Tell me what?" Jack said, raising his eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

"No, sir," Bulma said with an unfriendly chill in her voice. "We have wasted your guest's time long enough."

"I wouldn't necessarily call him a guest," Jack replied, looking curiously at her. "He's our newest hire, and you will be working closely together for the next year."

The man slowly stood to greet her. "Actually, we had the pleasure of meeting in the lobby this morning, Jack. Hello again, Ms. Brief. My _name_ is Vegeta Prince."

* * *

What the hell was Jack was up to? Why didn't he talk with her first? The entire situation irritated Bulma to no end. She had earned the right to handpick journalists she wanted to work with now - and most would kill to work with her. Not only was it clear that this new guy would be difficult, but he also dressed like a detective from a bad television mystery series - although his black leather boots had been shined perfectly. She liked that for some strange reason. She walked to opposite side of Jack's desk to seat herself, making no effort to shake her colleague's hand. Then she noticed the strikingly gorgeous chrome-tipped walking cane propped against his chair. She averted her eyes when Vegeta noticed her staring at it. The mini-explosion of horror and embarrassment on her face gave the man's crotchety heart pure, unadulterated joy. It was _she_ who almost plowed over a disabled man in the main lobby, on his first day at work, and she damn well knew it.

It didn't take long for Jack to realize these two had a disastrous introduction earlier that day. He closed his eyes briefly, praying for wisdom, because his job was about to get much harder. Bulma Brief didn't suffer fools, although former Marine First Sergeant Vegeta Prince could hardly be described in that way. The man's hardened, take-no-prisoners reputation preceded him, at least among the close-knit expatriate community of editors and reporters he worked with overseas. The Georgetown University graduate and decorated veteran served in the military until he was injured during a deployment. Afterward, journalism seemed like a natural fit for him professionally, and he competed with the best reporters inside and outside of the country. No one dared question his skills. He hated so-called "television news," and he wasn't shy about saying so, often quite angrily, because he remembered when it once served a useful purpose. Although he was a middle-aged man, his fellow reporters often called him "Father Time" because of his strong opinions about, well, just about everything. He hated small talk, though. If new acquaintances discussed the weather forecast multiple times or chattered about a beautiful new actress, he'd leave within minutes - and he didn't care if they were offended by his hasty exit. They didn't realize he was doing them a favor. There also weren't many people he considered close friends, except for a few from college and the military, and they didn't live anywhere near Manhattan.

Vegeta could also be an ass - like none other - when he believed the people working closely with him were lazy, or worse, incompetent. He knew that part wouldn't be a problem with Bulma. He admired her work and followed the rise of her career for years. One of her prize-winning reports focused on the difficulties veterans faced after returning to their small towns in upstate New York. He considered respectfully telling her how much he appreciated the story, and watching the documentary film she produced, but there was _no way in hell_ he would say anything now. That prima donna's over-sized ego almost made him rethink taking the job, especially since Jack was so eager for them to work together. He had fought hard his entire life for everything he had, including getting into college. The way Bulma paraded her upper East Side, blue-blooded, old money background in front of their boss, and him, was annoying. But Vegeta had many faults that blinded him at times too, the greatest being that he could never take full pleasure in having achieved so much in his life.

Jack moved around uncomfortably in his leather chair while Vegeta and Bulma listened to him for an hour. Neither had much to say, especially Bulma, which worried him more. He expected her to demand an angry shouting match with him about this decision as soon as Vegeta left. They usually reserved bigger arguments for one of the stinky alleys between the Capsule Corporation buildings, but he hoped that the oppressive summer heat would discourage her, so he opened his door to kick both reporters out of his office. Thinking that he would need more time to leave, Bulma stood behind Vegeta, who looked at her with indifference. Her coldness would never, ever match his. He was the maestro.

"What is it?" Bulma asked. "You can go ahead of me."

"No, please, Ms. Brief - after you," Vegeta said calmly. "I can be a slow walker sometimes with my bad hip, depending on how tired I am. I try not to get in anybody's way, you know? I'm sure you understand."

Bulma bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she almost drew blood. "Thank you, Mr. Prince, but I'm fine right here." She gave Jack a furious look as the other man left the office. It registered one step below an active volcano.

Jack returned to his desk and removed a shot glass from a locked drawer, followed by a giant bottle of Irish whiskey. "I'll meet you outside in a couple hours, duchess," he said. "There are other people here besides you who need me. Now get out and finish your work."

Bulma felt co-workers staring after she left her boss's office. The gossip had started and would likely spread like wildfire through both Capsule Media buildings before 3 p.m. She glanced at her watch. The time was 2:50 p.m.

Vegeta seemed unaware of their attention, however. He sat next to her desk wiping off his area with Clorox disinfectant wipes. He looked thoroughly disgusted by the growing pile of leftover potato chip bags, soda cans, crumpled napkins, and only-god-knows what other hazardous waste on Bulma's side of their workstation. When she returned to her desk, this time carrying coffee in a locked thermos, she noticed a little trash can had been placed between them. She sneered after grabbing a stack of ink pens and stuffing them in her purse. Mister clean would have to get his own supplies.

Vegeta was now spraying compressed air on his computer keyboard to remove all dust and crumbs. Then he looked beneath his desk. "You will use this trash can regularly as long as we're sitting next to each other."

Bulma set her cup down. "Excuse me?"

Vegeta grabbed his cane and stood. "Ich weiß, dass du mich gehört hast, Fräu Brief."

"Oh, god." Bulma rolled her eyes. "You're one of _those_ people - and yes, I heard you, sergeant. I also speak a little bit of German."

"Sehr gut!" Vegeta said. "Then you will do _me_ the courtesy of keeping your moldy lab experiments on your side of our shared space. Regular trash removal is required, though. And let me make myself clear: If I see one roach or ant or maggot over there, then I will throw everything inside of your desk into the dumpster downstairs."

Bulma removed her earrings and unpinned her hair. "I see you still like a good fight. Well, buddy, you can save it for someone else. I have better things to do. Go find a beef bone or something else to gnaw on - since you do sound like you're hungry. It looks like your teeth need whitening anyway."

Vegeta shifted his grip on the cane and left for the elevator. "Perhaps you should look in the mirror. All of that coffee hasn't done your vampire fangs any favors either. Try water. It's much better for you. Good day, _duchess_."

* * *

 **Hello, folks. I hope you like my little thought experiment. We'll see where the path leads. Endnotes in chapter two offer background on how V & B see themselves. Comments are always welcome, and thanks for reading!**

 **Ich weiß, dass du mich gehört hast = I know you've heard me.**

 **Sehr gut = Very good.**  
 **  
**


	2. Your Wish Is My Command

Bulma pulled two Nat Sherman cigarettes from her purse. These pricey "cancer sticks" she bought usually burned longer, and she had at least a half-hour of argument time planned with Jack - maybe. The insults she and Vegeta exchanged earlier exacerbated her anger and anxiety. She was pacing in her tennis shoes along the brick wall in the alley when her tired mentor finally arrived.

"I cannot believe you did this," she said, waving smoke away from her face. "You personally handpicked this guy without telling me!"

Jack snatched the other cigarette from her hand. "I thought about telling you - and stop pacing in circles, Bulma. You're making me dizzy, and this hire isn't the end of the world. Besides, the editor-in-chief likes Vegeta. I can't necessarily override his decisions, kiddo."

"Oh yeah, right! That's easy for you to say, traitor. Now the entire office thinks that he'll take my job eventually, and I am the highest-ranking woman reporter at Capsule Media, outside of that 'True Crime Tonight' TV airhead Katie Courier - and by the way, how much are they paying her in that department?"

Jack casually leaned against the wall. "You know, duchess, this is the first time I've seen you scared of competition - ever. What's this about?"

" _I am not scared_." Bulma paused to flick ashes from her cigarette. "I thought you knew me better than that. I've read the guy's work, including one of his books. He's good - fearless, perhaps - but I've heard that he's a recluse, hates TV, and possibly frightens children. I know our jobs aren't supposed to be personality contests all the time, but how could you possibly believe that he wouldn't want to go it alone? It's worked well for him. Look, maybe we should discuss this later."

"Actually, we won't," Jack replied curtly. "You know I dislike running my office by diktat, but you leave me no choice. First, you'll call your new colleague by the name he was born with - or whatever he chooses to go by. Second, I asked your editors to hold the Blacklands story until further notice, and I already told Vegeta to sit down with all of us for a strategy session."

"What?! But why?" Bulma threw her still-burning cigarette on the ground. "I'm close to turning in the second draft. Karen and Derek wanted to see in two weeks. I'm just now finishing the other story we discussed for Friday, too."

"Because, Bulma, you aren't doing enough to make this an airtight case!" Jack said angrily. "That's unacceptable. You're letting your pride stop you from receiving help. I taught you better than that, and I'm too old to get you or me or this company sued by some corrupt hotshot Manhattan lawyers. Whether you like it or not, Vegeta has the chops to guide you."

"Guide me? Wow. Just...wow. I'm outta here." Bulma turned to leave the alley until Jack touched her shoulder.

"Hear me on this, duchess. If your tantrum continues, Vegeta gets the entire project, and _I will_ choose the people he works with. Yeah, I expect him to be difficult at times, but he knows my judgment is good. So do you."

Waving her arm in the air in defeat, Bulma nodded while Jack winked and put his around her waist. Then they marched back to the front of the building.

"I'll see you later. I need to stop here for a second." Bulma looked down at her phone and noticed two messages, one from a number she didn't recognize. She postponed listening to it. The other call was more important.

 _"Hey, mom. Grandma got my baseball cleats for my game tomorrow, so I'm all clear. I just wanted to warn you that dad says he'll be there, too, if you decide to come. Anyway, I'm really excited. I hope we can get through regionals. Don't forget that we start playing at 4 p.m. Love you. Bye."_

Bulma held the phone against her chest. She would be there. A quick text back would be good enough for now, though: " _Of course I'm coming, Trunks. Thanks for being so understanding lately with my craziness at work. Hugs and kisses - Mom."_

The long day had caught up to Bulma more than she thought it would, yet she was eager to have the office to herself as others went home. It would be a late night once again. She plopped down in her chair and pushed the trash to the side on her desk. Then she saw ants crawling on top of a soda can.

"Shit." She flagged down the evening cleaning crew for some bug spray and trash bag. "The last thing I need is for General Cranky to have a fit about God's little six-legged helpers over here." Then she noticed a pink-colored note taped to her thermos. The elegant handwriting on it put her crooked scribbling to shame:

" _Meet me at the Brooklyn Heights Promenade around 7:30 p.m. Take your cab to Columbia and Clark Streets. You can finish whatever stupid story you're wasting your time on later - Prince."_

Bulma snorted. "Oh, he's out of his mind. I have no desire to gaze at the skyline with him. Not after today, and it's still freaking rush hour." She looked down at her phone again. "That phone message must be him too. Ugh. Make it stop!"

But she listened anyway.

 _"Bulma, I know you saw my note, so here's the follow-up call. Get down here. Consider it an appropriate apology to me. I can wait since you're probably whining about rush hour."_

* * *

Vegeta shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The weather had finally cooled off, and a nice breeze flowed across the Promenade walkway from the East River. Families and young couples in love walked leisurely through the neighborhood, sometimes greeting each other, but somehow he had made himself invisible to everyone. The old brownstone homes surrounding him were stunning, which calmed his overactive mind. Bulma said nothing at first after exiting her Yellow Cab, choosing instead to observe him, just like any curious reporter would.

"They're beautiful homes, aren't they?" she said, walking up behind him. "I don't come down to this neighborhood often."

Vegeta, who had been leaning on a street lamp, glanced over his shoulder. "How much was the cab?"

Bulma waved her hand at him. "You can pay me back later."

"No, I'll charge it to our company expense account because this visit is about work," he said with a smirk. "Also, I live in Brooklyn."

"Yeah, I figured that much. You better make my time worth it, Vegeta."

Vegeta pulled out a leash and whistled. A tiny dog ran past Bulma's feet, almost tripping her. The animal had an orange-brown fur coat that turned white on its front chest. Startled, it backed up against Vegeta's legs, growling and barking, while Bulma hollered at the top her lungs.

"Cherry, stop it!" Vegeta attached the leash while the dog whimpered at him. "Bulma bites, too - and would you quit yelling, woman? People do live around here."

"Is this your sick idea of a joke?" she snapped. "First, I _hate_ dogs. Second, _why_ do you have a Pomeranian named Cherry? What is she, like four pounds?"

After absorbing the shock, she began to laugh loudly. Vegeta took his cane and walked away with his dog toddling happily next to him. Bulma moved his other side, wiping tears after her laughing fit.

"Are you finished entertaining yourself at my expense?"

"Nope," Bulma replied, giggling. "I can't wait to tell everyone at the office tomorrow."

Vegeta looked her in the eye. "Cherry is a rescue dog. She was abused and then abandoned. I discovered years ago that animals are more loyal and pleasurable to be with than some people are. That's why I have her. Anything else you want to know?"

"Okay, okay," Bulma held up her hands at him. "I'm sorry. I'll stop now, and I apologize for…"

"I told you that coming here is your apology for earlier today," Vegeta said. "Save them, because we'll have more arguments, and given your arrogance you'll likely be at fault."

Bulma felt blood rushing to her face again. "Really? Just what does that mean?" She was already regretting this visit. Clearly this man had more personal problems that she didn't care to know more about. She gently slipped her hand around a can of pepper spray in her right pocket. One wrong move and he'd be hollering and writhing on the ground from chili oil extract in his eyes.

"Don't worry, duchess." Vegeta turned from her and continued strolling down the walkway. "Lots of undercover police officers hang out around here. I know some of them."

"Okay, look, enough with the head games, dude." Bulma stomped in front of him. "Now that my evening is shot, along with my desire to work any longer, cut the crap and tell me what you want."

Protecting her master, Cherry growled again, at which point Bulma growled louder and bared her teeth in retaliation. " _Try me,_ you miserable little cotton ball! He can't protect you forever!"

Vegeta shook his head at her. "While heading the profit of my counsel, avail yourself also of any helpful circumstances over and beyond the ordinary rules."

"Say what?" Bulma sighed in frustration. "Now you're speaking in riddles. That's annoying."

"Bulma, it's a passage from 'The Art of War,' by Sun Tzu, and it means look to those who can offer the most for you, where you are now, to enrich yourself and grow."

Laughing cynically, Bulma sat down on a bench to light a cigarette. "If I had a dollar for every know-it-all man who lectured me about life's mysteries, I would have a million dollars to donate to charity. The only men I halfway listen to these days are my father and Jack. You don't make the cut."

Vegeta slammed his cane on the ground, but his face showed no signs of anger, not even his eyes. "Would you just shut up _for once_ in your privileged life?"

"Don't talk to me like that, you condescending little prick!" A plume of bluish-white smoke seeped between Bulma's clenched teeth. "You don't know me!"

Vegeta's eyes narrowed. "I can, and I will! I may not know you personally, but even a blind man could see that you're backed into a corner with the Blacklands story. If you'd pull your head out of your ass for five minutes, maybe we can work together to find out the truth. The story might be bigger than you think, and perhaps more dangerous."

"And just how much did Jack say about _my_ _story_ , Vegeta?"

"He said enough for me to be interested - and put out that damn cigarette. It smells terrible. I would think someone as stylish as you wouldn't want to tarnish your appearance."

Bulma pulled out her phone and frowned. "If we're working together, then you'll get used to it. Look, I have to answer this call. It won't take long."

At first Vegeta thought nothing of it, but he noticed an odd glimpse in Bulma's eyes as she left. He walked farther away to avoid hearing the conversation, but she was obviously upset when she returned. The change concerned him, but he decided not to ask about it. She had her pride to protect, and so did he.

"Uh, Vegeta, I'm taking an executive car back to Manhattan instead of a cab. I need to get home. The driver can drop you off anywhere you'd like once we leave the Promenade. Where do you live in Brooklyn? You never said."

"I'll be fine."

"Okay. Don't say I never offered you anything." Bulma walked ahead of him, but not very fast, although it probably wouldn't have bothered Vegeta if she did. Yet, for some reason, when they returned to the neighborhood she felt uncomfortable just leaving him there. At least he had his evil, furry little friend to keep him company. The vision of those two gave her a reason to laugh quietly to herself, which she needed after speaking with her ex-husband on the phone.

Vegeta leaned on the corner street lamp while the limo driver helped Bulma into the back seat.

"Hey, don't call me duchess anymore," she said. "That's reserved for Jack only."

Vegeta nodded at her. "Your wish is my command, _duchess_."

Smiling broadly, the limo driver tipped his hat after closing Bulma's door. "I'll take good care of the lady, sir."

"See that you do."

* * *

 **Author's notes: Reader fangurlsrule asked some questions in the comment section about the characters' personalities and how we got here. Here's the backstory if you're interested. tl:dr**

1.) I'm portraying Bulma and Vegeta this way to play around with how their personalities overlap. Many stories I've read strongly focus on their differences - showing them as such extreme opposites - which makes total sense. Here, I'm exploring how much they can learn from each other. I also like the idea of Vegeta not being a total savage beast. He has it in him, though, and isn't afraid to use it. What will trigger it, and do we really want to see that happen?

2.) Vegeta is in his late 40s, and Bulma is about five years younger.

3.) Bulma's backstory: She doesn't see herself as "arrogant" in the traditional sense. She believes she's made a name for herself in a tough, male-dominated business within her own right, which she has. Her family history has helped open doors for her, and she's not ashamed of it, nor does she want to "rise above it" - and yes, she can be a spoiled brat. Still, she started her career working at the bottom, until Jack helped her, when no one else thought she'd last long. Just like anyone else, she has insecurities, and she's invested in proving that everyone else is wrong, especially when she feels threatened. Her arrogance and hot-headed behavior come from thinking that people should now just accept her word as gospel, because of her hard-won accomplishments, and that's that. That's not how life works, and that way of thinking has started to hurt her. (I saw a lot of this in DBZ Vegeta.)

4.) I often write Vegeta as an introvert. He might sound older because, to me, he spends a lot of time in his head contemplating stuff. He's most comfortable when people can connect with him on that level, but not everyone can or wants to, and sometimes he pushes folks away before giving them a chance to understand him. Some might say he's "too intense," but he also has a mischievous, funny side too. He's also former military, and he was physically hurt, so he's seen hardship up-close in ways others haven't. He's very, very smart and probably grew up dealing with people who either made his life miserable because of it, or they doubted his intelligence in nasty ways. He may be more laid back, but he still carries resentment over this. Also, he didn't grow up wealthy, or even middle class, but he knows many who did. **  
**


	3. Theatrical Entrances

Jack was pissed. He marched through the maze of desks in the newsroom to his office, leaving a strong odor of cigarettes trailing behind him. One would think that the displeased man had smoked an entire carton. He had a planning meeting scheduled, and no one had heard from Bulma yet. He was normally forgiving since long absences often meant she was chasing a lead for what would turn out to be a decent story, but he wasn't interested in _decent_. She was avoiding him. Not a smart move. He thought he made that clear the day before.

" _Where_ is Bulma?" he huffed. His thick gray hair looked like it had been attacked by a wind tunnel. "Prince, do you know where the hell she is?"

"Nope." Vegeta swiveled around in his chair. He had been happily rummaging through a stack of documents, having a much-needed Zen moment, so the interruption was annoying. There was fun to be had responding to Jack's overexcited bluster, though. The man's face had already moved through two shades of colors. The red-and-violet hues reminded Vegeta that he needed to buy paint for his bathrooms.

"Well, how come you don't know?! You're supposed to be working together, and I had this meeting planned."

Vegeta looked over the top of his reading glasses. "First, it's only been a day, and your _duchess_ is a diva, Jack. Second, it's _your job_ to worry about Bulma's schedule, not mine, and we can have your meeting without her. That's entirely up to you - but understand this, I won't play second to her or anyone else."

Placing his muscular arm on the papers, Jack glared down at him. All contorted signs of anger had vanished from his face - he even managed to smile - but his eyes were ablaze with fury.

"Look here, Vegeta. As of yesterday, it became _your job_ to know each other's schedules - and understand this, just because we brought you into this company doesn't mean _I_ _can't_ take you out. I also have dubious ways of getting what I want. I just don't use them often."

"Duly noted, _sir_." Vegeta pointed his cane past Jack's leg. "Perhaps you should look behind you. Someone must have snitched that you're on the warpath today, apparently."

Bulma stamped over to his desk, pushing Jack aside. She was dragging a straw beach bag that looked heavier than a weighed medicine ball. "Where the hell do you get off having that scary-looking policeman friend of yours track me down at my house, Vegeta?! I am a grown woman, not some rebellious runaway!"

Both men were somewhat surprised by her casual appearance. She wore a pair of blue-and-white pinstriped shorts, hugging her voluptuous thighs, and a blue baby-doll T-shirt, the latter drenched with sweat down the back. To top it off, she had a candy lollipop in her mouth, and she appeared to be enjoying it immensely. No doubt she was a New York Yankees' fan. All she needed was the baseball cap, which had been stuffed inside of the bag.

"It's nice to have friends in high places, isn't it, duchess?" Vegeta said impishly. "I thought you had some of those too, but maybe I should stop assuming. Besides, the officer you met works in your part of town. He owed me a favor."

"Damn it, Vegeta, I _said_ don't call me that!"

"There are plenty of things I could call you, Bulma, but I try to be a gentleman… most of the time. You caught me in a pleasant mood."

And with that, Vegeta rearranged his papers into a tidy pile. He also tried not to let curiosity conquer him. He assumed Bulma hated all things baseball after her divorce from Yamcha Wolf. He pitched with the Yankees for six seasons until suffering a career-ending injury. In recent years he had started drinking too much, but somehow he managed to stay out of jail. He, too, had helpful "friends" around the city. The six-foot-tall, handsome athlete also remained playful and charming, especially around women.

Bulma kept her more dramatic side under wraps throughout their marital troubles, channeling most of her energy into work and caring for their son. Yamcha, however, kept the city's gossip tabloids busy with his antics before and after their divorce. Both sides of their families were disgusted by the man's loutish behavior, although his mother made Bulma feel guilty about working so much while caring for Trunks. The boy spent a lot of time with his grandparents these days, which they all enjoyed, but Bulma had begun to reconsider her role in her son's life.

"Stop it, both of you," Jack barked. "Bulma, get in my office now."

She cut her eyes at him. "Why am I the only one?"

"Stupid question," Jack said, walking away. "Now get your ass in there."

Bulma bent down close to Vegeta's face. "This is all your fault."

He smirked and waved. "Bye now. Maybe you'll pay closer attention to your schedule. And for the record, the next time Jack gets mad at me because of your bullshit, don't expect me to be so forgiving - or helpful. You cleaned your desk yesterday, much to my surprise, so I thought I would reward your efforts."

"I'll show you a reward, you dirty…"

"Bulma!"

"I'm coming, Jack." Aggravated, she wagged her arm at him. "I'm coming already."

Jack shut the door behind them and closed window blinds facing the newsroom. Bulma silently emerged from their boss's lair within fifteen minutes, baring no sign of upset. She was also sucking on a new lollipop. This time it smelled like an orange, or maybe a tangerine. Vegeta liked the aroma, and it was becoming an unwelcome distraction. He was already hungry, and when he waited too long to eat he craved sweets. He wanted a piece of _Bulma's_ candy posthaste, but he would never live it down if she knew this. He wouldn't ask her for one, even if he had to chew through ten pencils. Luckily, she would be leaving soon. Her clothing told him and everyone else nearby that much, along with her short time in Jack's office. After checking phone messages, she leaned forward in her chair to retie her shoes. Vegeta was perusing a legal notepad marked up like an architect's sketch board. It was a matter of time before Bulma refused to let him continue ignoring her.

She removed the candy from her mouth, gesticulating like an orchestra conductor. "You want one of these?"

"Do I look like I want one?"

"So _you_ _do_ want one." Bulma smiled slyly. "You just told on yourself, sergeant. I would think a good reporter such as you would never answer a simple yes-or-no question indirectly. You also don't seem like you're above lying when necessary, either."

"At least my careless expression of weakness provoked a compliment," Vegeta replied, bowing partially in his seat. "How kind of you, madame. My fragile self-esteem has been restored. All those years in therapy don't compare with your level of compassion."

Bulma licked the circumference of the lollipop at a snail's pace, flicking her tongue a few times on the top. "Your ears must be full of dog hair. That wasn't a compliment."

Vegeta faced her directly. "As I said last night, I'm here when you're ready to work. You can pout and waste time all you want, but I'm not going anywhere, sister. Your editors and assistant met with me briefly today, too. The meeting Jack planned was for his convenience, not yours or mine. Regardless, it's barely been two days, and every gossip-monger in the city is trying hard to confirm whether you've lost your magic touch at Capsule. Hanging yourself with your own rope is a terribly tragic way to perish."

He had taken a verbal sword to the woman's pride with ease. His skills were astounding, but Bulma would never be convinced that hers didn't match his. Her pricked ego would heal soon enough.

"What you said was unfair and uncalled for, Vegeta."

"If that's what you choose to believe, then I won't stop you." Vegeta's lips pressed together as he stood to leave. The movement was quick, probably less than three seconds, to the point of being barely noticeable, but it didn't get past Bulma.

She removed the candy from her mouth. "Are you okay?"

"Yes."

" _That's a lie_ , _Vegeta_. You just winced. Are you in pain?"

 _This woman is incorrigible._ Vegeta closed his eyes, imagining himself on a yacht off the Amalfi Coast of Italy, drinking a case of wine to forget as much as possible. Then he'd have tea cookies and a glass of limoncello liqueur for dessert. He also had a taste for the finer things in life, although his finances would never come close to Bulma's dynastic wealth.

"Fine then, Bulma. Yes, I winced, and no, I didn't lie. I am okay. Both can be true at the same time."

She cracked the lollipop inside her mouth and threw the stick away. "So what happened?"

" _That's it_." Vegeta lowered his voice into a restrained snarl. "Let's play a little game called _mind your own damn business_. Not once have I asked what you've been up to, even though I am entitled to because, you know, we're supposed to work together."

"Well, you could have," Bulma replied, showing no signs of guilt. "I wouldn't mind. What you see is what you get. Plus, you kept this lady out last night longer than you should have. Maybe I needed my beauty rest today."

By this time Vegeta fantasized about traveling to Bali for a yoga retreat. A hot-spring resort outside of Tokyo sounded nice too, or maybe he could see California wine country. The last location would be cheaper to visit. _Wine country it is!_

"Woman, right now I wouldn't care if you were hanging off the Empire State Building downtown in a bathrobe and crying for help. It's past 3 p.m., _and_ I deserve a break from being yelled at and questioned like a prisoner before I get to be the true asshole that I really am. Besides, you obviously have somewhere else to be that has _nothing to do_ with work. You can arrive on time at the Yankees game if you leave now."

"See, that's your first incorrect assumption," Bulma said, picking up her bag. "I'm not attending that game. My son's baseball team is playing in Brooklyn, so I definitely should leave now."

Vegeta stared past her. "Good luck."

"What are you looking at?" Before Bulma could turn around, a tall, lavender-haired man covered her eyes from behind, drawing her in close. He looked at Vegeta with an unmistakable hatred in his eyes, even though he was laughing uproariously.

Bulma removed his hands from her face. "Uncle Jimmy, what are you doing here?" **  
**  
"Is this crippled troublemaker bothering you, doll face? I'd be happy to take care of him for you."

Vegeta lifted his chin. " _Hn._ "

* * *

James "Jimmy" Brief was known for theatrical entrances. He could also be a bully. One would think a man of his age and stature would be satisfied with being a relatively successful businessman, but he had a terrible inferiority complex. He always felt like his brother, Bulma's father Charles, was their parents' favorite. The brothers' relationship had been tense for years, but Jimmy remained fond of Bulma and her sister, Tights. **  
**

"Well, well. The prince of all hacks managed to get a job at a real media company. How did you accomplish that? Let me guess. You blackmailed someone, perhaps?"

Vegeta clenched his cane. "Hello, Jimmy."

Bulma stared at them. "You two know each other?"

"Sure we do, doll," Jimmy sniffed. "We met while he was on assignment for _The Straphanger's Voice,_ that piece-of-garbage magazine for unemployed poets and whiny liberals. I'm surprised he didn't tell you. Maybe he didn't want you to be suspicious of him."

Vegeta lowered his head and chuckled. "Well, Jimmy, she already is, so that's one more checkmark on your endless list of grievances with me. Now if you two will excuse me, I have my own schedule to keep. Enjoy your family reunion."

Grinning, Jimmy put his arm around Bulma's shoulder and pointed his forefinger at him. She knew her uncle could be a jackass sometimes, but she had never seen him attack another person so brazenly in her presence before.

As if he read her thoughts, Jimmy looked down and kissed the top of her head. "Oh please, Bulma. Don't give me _that_ look. You can cut people to pieces with that foul mouth of yours. I'm sure Prince has been slashed several times already."

Bulma placed both hands on his cheeks affectionately. "What are doing here, honey?"

"I came to take you to Trunks' baseball game. Looks like you're ready to go, too - but really, you could try to be more modest with your clothing choices. Don't get me wrong, you look great for your age…"

Bulma covered his mouth. "Stop it right there, you old fart. I take it mom told you about the game. You're lucky you found me here. Why didn't you call?"

"Yeah, well. You know Bunny tries so hard to keep me involved with you all, and I wanted to surprise you. She said you would be in the office briefly, and I was playing racquetball nearby. I figured it would be good to show my face to support you and that handsome kid. Is your good-for-nothing ex-husband coming?"

Bulma handed him her umbrella. "Trunks thinks so. As long as Yamcha doesn't show up drunk, I'm fine with it. He's getting his illness under control, and he's still my son's father."

"I suppose so, doll, but you also have a soft spot for him. Remember, his reckless behavior dragged you through the mud. How you managed to kick everyone's ass working here throughout that time is nothing short of amazing. You kept your dignity, too. Don't get pulled back into his mess."

Bulma nodded. "I did keep my dignity, didn't I?" Her uncle could be one hell of an armchair psychologist, but she didn't want to cry in the office. Jimmy picked up the rest of her things.

"We should get out of here," he said softly. "I'm really sorry, sweetheart. I wasn't trying to upset you."

"I know you weren't," Bulma said, grabbing his hand. "Let's go."

Vegeta was eating an orange at a community gathering table on the other side of the newsroom. He never took his eyes off Jimmy. He was upset with himself for not telling Bulma the night before like he planned to. He was soon jolted from his thoughts by a well-manicured hand clamped on his shoulder. The other hand was shoved in front of his face so he would be forced to shake it.

 _This must be a television talking head. Why am I being tortured? I pay my taxes on time. I'm kind to my dog. Life is so unfair._

"You're Vegeta Prince! I read somewhere that you were at Capsule now. I am…"

"You're Aidan O'Malley."

Vegeta wanted to make him leave as soon as possible. He was already insulted that the man lied about reading about him "somewhere." The veneers on the guy's teeth sparkled brighter than most garage flood lights, too.

"Yes, sir!" Aidan smiled broadly, still waiting for Vegeta to take his hand. Then there was an uncomfortable silence.

"I would shake your hand, but mine are kind of sticky and wet from these oranges."

"Yes, I understand," Aidan replied. "I think I'll join you. This office seems to have food everywhere. I guess that's a good way to keep everyone working hard."

Vegeta assumed he looked irritated enough scare others away, but this guy seemed blissfully unaware. Maybe that was a common mental disorder of TV blowhards like him: assuming that people should be grateful for their attention because they were skilled at shouting ill-conceived _opinions_. Using _facts_ and _logic_ to inform their views was less important, going against everything Vegeta believed in. Having opinions was fine. _Bullshitting through them wasn't_. He made no secret of his disgust for this behavior.

O'Malley had become a nationwide celebrity for railing against "the elites destroying our traditional values." Vegeta knew the guy was a phony after seeing him rabidly attack the arts, in their entirety, in a city famous for theater, literature, music, and museums. O'Malley and his show, "The Pulpit," also made an ungodly amount of money shoveling this nonsense to the masses. The truth was he didn't give a damn about anyone's values but his own. If Vegeta weren't working on the other project, O'Malley would have likely been his next investigative subject - but not because he disliked him. He disliked many people. This one was rolling around in someone's dirt somewhere. He also wondered why the man was strolling through the newsroom as if he ran the place. He certainly didn't work there.

"My wife, Kate, works in digital production."

Vegeta looked over at him. "What?"

"My wife works here," Aidan said. He began to peel an orange. "You look like you're trying to figure out why I'm walking around, although there is no law against visiting here."

Vegeta began pitching his fruit peels into a trash can across from them. Like any basketball fan, he counted his successful shots. No peels had landed on the floor yet.

 _The jerk is more observant than I thought. How interesting._

"You know, O'Malley, you're the second person today who's read my mind. I should work on hiding my facial expressions better, obviously. Have you taken acting classes perchance?" _  
_  
Aidan rubbed the back of his neck. "You're a witty lad, Mr. Prince. I see what you did there. It's funny how guys like you have so much contempt for my work. You might like it if you tried. I do read, and your knowledge is massive. Imagine the response you'd get from a wider audience on television. From what I see here, you also seem like a down-to-earth guy. Your family was working-class and Catholic, like mine, and you're a veteran."

"Correction, Aidan: Your family was upper middle class. I do my homework also."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's all the same these days. No one's money seems to go that far. So, uh, how is Bulma? Is she around today?"

"No, she's not here."

 _Why the hell is he asking me about Bulma? I haven't even been here a full week. Maybe I could pay one of the college interns to keep me informed about office gossip about us._

The man looked genuinely disappointed. This response caught Vegeta's full attention.

"Oh, okay," Aidan replied. "Just between you and me, she's beautiful. One of my buddies says you're already getting under her skin. Good for you. If I weren't happily married…"

Vegeta raised his eyebrow. "If you weren't married, _you would do what_ , O'Malley?"

"Oh, give me a break, Prince. Don't play holier-than-thou with me. I know you've noticed. I strongly believe in family values, but I'm still a guy. That woman is lively and clever, and she kowtows to no one! I've been trying to get her on my show for years."

Vegeta's small talk limit had been reached. "Look, I'm heading home now. I have some work to finish, and the interruptions here today have become rather tiring."

Aidan smiled. He was comfortable with rejection and liked the challenge of changing people's minds. Most folks could be bought if one offered them the right deal, he believed. "Okay then. I'm leaving my business card on this table. Call me when you're ready to tell the world what you _really_ _think._ Maybe I can help you get a talk radio show since you hate TV so much. Take care!"

"Likewise." Vegeta examined the card. O'Malley's name crowded the width of the paper. Watching him leave was more satisfying than seeing Jimmy Brief's departure with Bulma.

He promptly ripped the card to pieces. It was time for pizza, and Brooklyn, New York, was the best place for it.

* * *

 **Poor Vegeta just can't catch a break from anyone. :)**


	4. Home Run

Bulma nodded sleepily in Jimmy's car as they drove along FDR Drive to the Brooklyn Bridge. The sound-absorbing interior of his silver BMW 530i sedan blocked out the worst noise from outside, which was a welcome relief. The highway was full of speeding vehicles, as usual, but the two native Manhattanites felt confident that their ride into New York City's second-largest borough wouldn't be difficult. Bulma expected to arrive at the ballpark within twenty-five to thirty minutes. Her uncle stubbornly aimed for fifteen, which would have likely been more achievable at a different time of day. However, he had decided that his $52,000 vanity car gave him more power over "lesser peasants" - his rude nickname for other harried drivers.

Jimmy kept an observant eye on Bulma as she dozed. Her gentler appearance brought back happy memories from her childhood when, in her eyes, he could do no wrong. Her personality had toughened significantly over the years out of necessity. People passionately loved, hated, secretly admired, and feared her. Indeed, she was a spitfire, a characteristic he admired, but Jimmy also believed she could have used her multiple talents elsewhere. "Everyone hates reporters," he often said. Bulma would then request the names, addresses, and phone numbers of "everyone." She was not one to be trifled with, and he knew her professional work was rock-solid. She had uncovered much wrongdoing with her investigative reporting. Her feature writing had also won praise for its vivid, complex and thoughtful depictions of people from all walks of life. He had always been overconfident about his salesmanship skills, but he held hope for convincing his niece that she could do something else with her life that could be just as rewarding and enjoyable.

"So, uh, what are you working on, doll?"

Bulma yawned and looked over at him. "I could ask the same of you, uncle."

"So I guess this is a stand-off between us."

"It doesn't have to be," she replied, batting her big eyes at him. "Got any good tips for a curious reporter?"

"Dearest niece of mine, that cute teenager pout of yours stopped working on me when you left university - and that was a hell of a long time ago. You're so terrible, and it's totally unfair that you get to have all the fun."

"I am terrible, and that's why I'm good at what I do." Bulma stretched out her hands to examine her newly painted fingernails. "You know I don't discuss my stories with anyone, hon."

"Now that the one-legged pirate has invaded your desk space, I suspect that won't continue. You're working with him now, I take it?"

"Jimmy, stop it, okay?" Bulma recalled her embarrassment over her first encounter with Vegeta in the lobby. "He may be obnoxious, but the disability he has no control over. Show a little respect. I mean, Vegeta and I have had strong words with each other, but..."

Jimmy parked under a tree near the baseball field and shut off the engine. "Bulma, trust me, Prince is as tough as they come. If he can get around in this overcrowded, pothole-ridden city with that kind of a limp, doing the work you do daily, then he's no slouch. Keep that in mind, and save your misplaced pity for someone who truly deserves that kindness."

Bulma had been focused on finding her son among the crowd of boys gathered on the field. She leaned back in the car seat, removing her hand from the passenger door. "Are you going to tell me more about your distaste for him, and how long will this story be? Trunks texted that the game is starting late, so we have another twenty minutes to talk."

Jimmy's nostrils flared. "It's more like disgust. A friend of mine, Bennie Young, had been caught laundering dirty money, along with others. Prince investigated what turned out to be a larger ring of people involved in the insider trading scheme that made the money. You remember the story about Sun Palisades Corporation, in California?

"I remember." Bulma's eyebrows rose slightly. "Sun Palisades' vice president shared private information about her company's upcoming purchase of a pharmaceutical firm in upstate New York."

"Colette Pharma," Jimmy replied. "The people involved made a good amount of money buying Collette's stock before they got caught."

"So Bennie was a part of that mess?"

"Yes, and he also committed suicide, which you probably didn't hear about. It was devastating for his family. He worked for me a long time ago, too."

"So you're angry with Vegeta for doing his job? Your friend was _a criminal_ , Jimmy."

"I'm not angry that Bennie got caught. He deserved jail time. I can't stand Prince because he thought I was involved in the racket!"

Bulma dropped her phone on car floor. " _What_ did you just say?"

"Yes, he thought I was involved. He wouldn't leave me alone and tried every angle to connect to me it."

"What the hell is this, Jimmy? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Jimmy cocked his head to the side, annoyed that his otherwise intelligent niece would ask such a foolish question. "It would have drawn unwanted attention to you, Bulma. The only reason why Prince's investigation of me didn't leak everywhere is he knows how to keep his mouth shut. It stays closed until he _gets_ what he _wants_. It wouldn't have been in his best interest to tell anyone except for his editors, I guess. Regardless, the man is shady, and you shouldn't trust him."

Bulma felt a lump in her throat. "Why did he think you were a part of it?"

Jimmy cringed hearing her voice gradually lose its forcefulness. He also felt angry. Bulma was judging him. It wasn't her place, he believed, no matter how bad the situation looked. She was family. "I don't need you putting me on trial for something I had no involvement in. It's up to you whether to believe me. You could even investigate me yourself, with Prince's permission, although I'm sure your boss would consider that a bad idea."

His self-pitying harangue ended with the crashing of Bulma's hand into the car's dashboard. "Sarcasm won't work with me, so stop being an asshole and answer the goddamn question _straight_. When we leave this car, I must focus entirely on my son. This is getting in the way of that plan."

"I wasn't a part of it, Bulma! What more do I have to say? The money those guys dealt with is pocket change for me. Interrogate Prince about his failure to find anything on me. Let him relive the humiliation of fucking up the way he did. He hates to lose, baby. You can even poke around with the federal government prosecutors with the Palisades case, but being involved would open up a new set of problems for you. Don't you reporters call that a _conflict of interest_? That might make you look bad."

Bulma sighed and opened the car door. "Okay, I've had enough. There's only so much drama I can take in a day. Thank you for bringing me out here. Just…come watch the game."

Jimmy continued looking at the windshield. "Are you sure? I don't want to _burden_ you."

"It's up to you, uncle, but I don't do guilt trips either. If I didn't want you here, I would've said it within the last three minutes of this discussion, and you know I had a right to ask you questions - especially since you started all of this the moment you walked into Capsule this afternoon."

"You know, Bulma, I think it might be better if I left." He started his car and saluted her. "You're absolutely right. You should focus on that great kid of yours. We'll catch up later. I love you, doll."

Bulma slowly put on her sunglasses. "Bye."

She nervously watched her son's reactions throughout the game. When Trunks wasn't looking her way for encouragement, he was scanning the grassy areas and parking lots beyond the baseball field. He was waiting for his father, obviously, who finally arrived during the game's sixth inning. Yamcha stopped briefly as he approached the field to wave at him. Trunks was gave his dad a thumbs-up, letting him know that he wasn't angry. Bulma's chest rose and fell heavily watching them. As soon as her ex-husband walked onto the field, a few flirtatious women flocked to him like hungry pigeons. He did look much healthier, she thought, but she had mixed feelings about saying anything to him at all. He wanted to turn back time - with her.

 _I feel like I'm living in a cheap romance novel._

She often beat herself up emotionally like this when Yamcha tapped into the excitement they once shared together. He asked her to take him back when he called the night before, while she was in Brooklyn with Vegeta. She kept her eyes focused on the field, while Yamcha removed his aviator sunglasses and walked up the bleachers. He stood at the end of her row, where she sat alone.

"It looks like they're going to win this one."

Bulma handed him a towel to wipe sweat from his face. "Glad you made it in enough time, Mr. Wolf. I'm sure our son is delighted."

"Are you angry?"

Bulma faced him as he sat down. "I'm annoyed. Smartphones have many tools to improve communicating with friends and loved ones. Texting is an example."

"Hey there, can you lay off of me?" An easy, relaxed smile unfolded across his tanned face. "Apparently what I said last night really upset you."

"I could lie to you and say no, Yamcha."

"But you can't, and, by the way, you look as lovely as ever."

"Look, player, we're not doing this here. This is our son's day, and we're here to focus on his needs, all right?"

"Maybe his needs include having both of his parents together, Bulma. I miss you."

She shuddered as his firm hand pressed into her lower back. His fingers circled south, stopping at the top of her belt, where he caressed the skin peeking from underneath her shirt. She lowered her head and exhaled softly. "I'm going to tell you this one more time. _Stop it._ "

"Fine," Yamcha replied, leaning back. "I will say this, my darling: It's okay to want to be touched again."

He was baiting her into an argument. That way, she would be forced to continue interacting with him. She was determined to resist.

"Bulma, look, he's coming." He took her hand so they could both stand. As their son moved up to bat, a chorus of supporters cheered for him.

Trunks hit a home run, throwing his baseball hat off and laughing as he circled the bases. His parents hooted and stomped triumphantly from the bleachers. The team had one more inning go.

* * *

It was a nice evening, once again. Vegeta parked his car a few blocks away from his favorite pizzeria to walk through the tree-lined, painstakingly manicured sidewalks in Park Slope. The historic neighborhood had been the trendy, family friendly place to live for some time, which meant more joggers, more over-sized baby carriages, and more people in search of good food and fun activities. Luckily, the restaurant he frequented, named Sal's, was tucked neatly away on a quieter street. He could take time to enjoy the scenery and didn't have to worry as much about walking while others rushed around him.

The simplicity and coziness of the family-run place charmed him after his first meal there. The owners were also kind enough to keep bowls of water and kibble outside for local dog lovers. He brought Cherry, of course, having retrieved her from the college student who occasionally looked after her. The eatery had become a safe haven where he could unwind completely and maybe have a glass of wine - or maybe an entire bottle.

The bar offered an entertaining front-row seat facing a wood-fired oven where the restaurant's eponymous chef, Salvatore Marino, worked his magic. A gentle, giant smile crossed over the older man's rosy and somewhat sweaty face. He looked like a human tower looming over a small group of regular diners who dominated the area. Vegeta sometimes sat at the end of the row, often with a magazine or newspaper. When he brought Cherry with him, Sal's wife Berta would gleefully carry her to the back patio, cooing and whispering affectionate words like a mother would to a child.

Leaning over the bar, Sal handed him a spotless Zinfandel glass. The men exchanged serious looks, with some eagerness, as the ponytail-wearing chef uncorked a bottle to pour a small amount of red wine. "Prince, you know I always have a table for you," he said quietly. "It's crowded up here."

Vegeta swirled the wine around in the glass and sniffed it. The aroma, reminiscent of blackberries and vanilla, satisfied. The wine itself fit his preference: modest, affordable and tasty. He decided to take the whole bottle but wouldn't drink it all in one setting. He nodded his approval to Sal, who promptly poured more into the glass.

"I'm okay, Sal. What is this, Montepulciano d'Abruzzo?"

"Indeed it is," the chef replied happily. "Now back to my first suggestion. I keep special seats open for my favorite customers. You know that, sergeant. Take advantage of the privilege this evening."

Vegeta looked up at him. "My hip and leg and overall stamina are fine - if that's what you're trying to find out. It's not like I don't exercise, and I usually have no problem attracting women when I show off the results, either."

Sal shrugged. "So what if they like your biceps and chest? It's not like you go out on dates with them. I also stopped counting the smart, friendly women from the neighborhood who've tried to chat with you here."

These uninvited sermons had become commonplace. Vegeta knew he meant well, but, for some reason, this particular lecture irritated him. "I had no idea you were this concerned about a problem that doesn't exist. I'll take you up on that offer about table seating now."

"Very good." Sal picked up the bottle of wine. "I see my big mouth worked. My son will bring your meal over. May I join you?"

"What choice to do I have?" Vegeta said as he walked next to him. "I'm starving, you own this place, and your wife has kidnapped my best non-human friend in the world. You're nothing but a couple of emotional blackmailers. You know more about my personal life and the way I think than anyone else in the entire city. I'm still trying to figure out how the hell that happened."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out one day," Sal replied, placing the wine bottle on the table. He had chosen a side booth that had just enough leg room, and extra padding in the seat and back cushions, for Vegeta to feel more comfortable. "So how is the new gig going?"

"Hey, would you give me at least _a week_ of working at Capsule before I feel like discussing it? Don't you have some recipes to experiment with around here tonight?"

Sal poured himself a glass of wine and raised it. "Prince, you're a funny guy - you know that? Here's a toast to your continued success and good health." Vegeta's expression softened as he returned the gesture, tipping his glass in the man's direction. They chuckled warmly as Sal's son, Tony, delivered an enormous Neapolitan pizza and serving bowl of salad.

Vegeta unraveled his napkin and whistled in surprise at the platter. "Guys, you know I can't eat all of this. I was trying to save room for dessert, too."

"You said you were starving, right?" Sal asked. "Also, don't be rude. Had you not planned to share with me?"

The two spent the next hour eating and kibitzing about life and its mysteries, until Berta summoned her garrulous husband to handle "a dispute" in the kitchen. This was her kindhearted way of giving Vegeta time alone. Watching the couple nag each other as they scurried away entertained him. Then he glanced at his cane briefly. He leaned forward, placing a hand over his eyes. To anyone else, he only appeared to be tired.

Berta soon returned with tiramisu and a cup of espresso. "Stay as long as you want, okay?" She touched his shoulder with a mother's concern. "Sometimes the hardest battles are given to the strongest soldiers."

Vegeta nodded slowly and sighed. "Thank you for bringing dessert. I'll take it home with me."

She placed a dessert fork in front of him and smiled. "Tell you what, Vegeta, I'm leaving this plate here for ten minutes. Take a few bites. You barely have any pizza left anyway - because of Sal's greedy appetite, apparently. Please excuse me for a moment. It looks like we have newcomers dining with us this evening."

He took her advice. Tiramisu literally meant "cheer me up," which the rich Italian dessert certainly did. The delicate melding of silky cream cheese, liqueur, cocoa, and sponge cake tasted glorious. Both he and Cherry would leave the restaurant well-fed and blissfully content, he thought. Finally, he felt fully prepared to confront the frenetic ring of fire known as Bulma Brief the next day, in addition to other frustrations plaguing his mind.

Berta returned shortly thereafter, smiling broadly at two boys seating themselves at a table ahead of him. Their blue-and-white T-shirts had "St. Anthony's Baseball" inscribed on the front. A curvaceous, lavender-haired woman following them abruptly stopped, almost causing another woman to crash into her.

"Hey, Bulma, did you _really_ have to stop here?" This woman's voice almost sounded like she had her nose broken. "You could have given me a concussion or some other brain injury. What's the problem, hon?"

"Nothing's wrong, Cecilia. I see someone I know from work. I kind of need to say hello."

"Oh really?" She peered over her shoulder, pointing her forefinger past Bulma's earlobe. " _You mean that guy?_ "

Vegeta and Bulma's eyes locked on each other like matadors preparing for a bullfight. She had to work quickly before the meddlesome woman asked more questions. Worse, Cecilia had a bad habit of loudly calling men "cute," "grown and sexy," or "smoking hot." It didn't matter who and where they were. The look Vegeta received told Bulma that the mother of her son's best friend was close to embarrassing them both.

"Yes, yes." She grabbed Cecilia's shirt and pushed her in the opposite direction. "Go and order food with the boys. I'll be there shortly. Get a bottle of white wine for the both of us, too. It's been a long day."

Cecilia laughed and winked her eye. "Okay then. Do you have a preference? Oh, you must tell me _everything_ about the strong-and-silent type over there when you're done talking." Bulma dumped her beach bag into the woman's hands to keep her occupied. It was bad enough that she had pointed at him already.

"Whatever wine you choose is fine, except for Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay."

Vegeta stared blankly at the ceiling, hoping that a supernatural force would take mercy and abduct him. Of the more than fourteen-thousand eating-and-drinking places in Brooklyn, she had to come there.

 _Damn this woman. Sal's is my place!_

"Are you busy?" Bulma's vibrant blue eyes were slightly downcast, which made him groan. He wasn't in the mood for the woman's ritual blood-letting of apologies and regret. She would soon forget them anyway once they argued again.

"Just sit down already," he said, sipping his coffee. "We're already past being formal with each other."

"Look, Vegeta, I came over to apologize about Jimmy." She looked down at the table. "He shouldn't have said anything about your…your…"

"My disability? Say it with me together now, dear. My dis-ab-bil-ity _. See, it's just that easy_. The word doesn't make one more prone to life-threatening accidents."

"Right." Bulma's lips flattened into a taut line. "This wasn't a good idea. See you at work."

Vegeta blocked her attempted exit with his cane. "Sit down…please. First, your uncle is an adult, so there's no need to apologize for him. He took a low blow at me, which I consider a compliment. Do you know why?"

"Because it means your presence disturbs him."

"Exactly, Bulma. That said, I should have told you last night on the promenade. I owe you an apology. Offering them to anyone is rare for me, so do me the honor of accepting it."

"Are you still suspicious of Jimmy?"

"You're a smart person." He wiped his mouth and paused. "What do you think?"

"Well, holding grudges is common for people who believe they've been falsely accused of crimes, and Jimmy has a huge one against you."

Vegeta could tell by Bulma's rapid eye-blinking that she wasn't ready to hear more. "If I had wanted to get to Jimmy through you, I would have done it long ago. You definitely have more respect and high-society clout to be an easy target for someone like me because you have a lot more to lose. I would be happy to revisit this topic after we finish working on our other project. It also looks like your son is coming for you now."

Trunks had already sized-up Vegeta from afar before approaching Bulma. The man looked harmless enough to him, so the teenager's body language was relatively laid-back. He would judge how much protectiveness he would show based on his mother's reactions. She seemed to be holding up well.

"Mrs. Arale asked me to invite your friend to eat with us, mom. The food is coming soon."

A corner of Vegeta's mouth twitched wickedly. Bulma would have to be exceedingly polite to avoid any suspicion from her son about them. She moved over on her side of the booth for Trunks to sit down.

"We're finishing up here, honey. This is Mr. Prince. He just started working at Capsule this week."

Trunks held out his hand to greet him. "Hello, Mr. Prince. It's nice to meet you."

Vegeta gave him a firm handshake, keeping an eye on Bulma's response. She was transforming into mother lion. He had to be careful.

"Call me Vegeta."

"Nope," Bulma replied, shaking her head vigorously. "He will call you _Mr. Prince_."

Trunks rolled his eyes. "Okay fine, mom. Now will you come eat with us, Mr. Prince? I'm really hungry."

"I can't, unfortunately, Trunks. I had a rather large meal, including this unfinished dessert. Maybe we can dine together at a later date. By the way, did you win your ball game?"

The teenager's entire face lit up with pride. His mother had been bragging about him. Bulma, however, hoped their chat would end soon.

"Yup, we won! Thanks for asking, sir. Do you like baseball?"

"I do. What's your batting average?"

"Oh, I'm batting a little over five-hundred," Trunks said eagerly. Vegeta kept a straight face, giving the boy wordless permission to dwell longer on the achievement. A little bragging was appropriate, he believed.

"Impressive. I have an offer for you. When your team wins state championship - because I trust that will happen - I'll bring you and your friend here for dinner if your parents approve. I know the owners, and you can eat until you drop. Bulma has been _so kind to me_ since I started work. It's the least I can do to repay her bigheartedness."

Vegeta was having fun counting the seconds until the restrained, fake smile on Bulma's face converted into a hardened glare. He meant what he said to her son, though. The boy was interesting. Vegeta didn't spend much time with kids generally, but teenagers often gravitated toward him, no matter how much he growled or scowled at first. His "training" could be strict when they sought him out for advice, but they always appreciated it.

"Trunks, it's time to go now," Bulma said, placing her hand on his head gently. "Don't forget that you have a community service project tomorrow."

"Sure." He turned toward Vegeta and bowed. "I look forward to that dinner, Mr. Prince. Bring a few credit cards, because this might get expensive."

"Good luck, kid."

Once Trunks was out of listening range, Bulma stood and placed her hand on the table. Her expression was relaxed - too relaxed - as if she were contemplating giving Vegeta the beating of his life.

"Don't give me a reason to believe Jimmy was right about you. Screwing with my son's head to taunt me could get you murdered. Now that you've promised him something, you better damn well follow through with it - and I will be there to watch him eat to his heart's content. _Capisce?_ "

Vegeta had one last bite of dessert before responding. "You have a nice son. His manners are impeccable."

"Actually, he is a fantastic kid, Vegeta - but don't be fooled. He can also be an extraordinary con artist, among other things that I can't repeat here without cursing."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that. He's your son after all. You all will enjoy the food here."

Sal, who had been watching them, strolled over with smaller box of pizza in hand. "Prince, take this, and don't argue with me about it. Berta says I ate too much of your food - oh, and hello to you, Ms. Brief. My name is Salvatore Marino. I run this place."

Bulma looked curiously at him. "Have we met before?"

"No, but I watched your documentary film that this fine gentleman recommended. You see, I'm a veteran like him. You did a wonderful job. It brought tears to my eyes."

Bulma looked back over at Vegeta as if someone slapped her upside the head.

"Why… thank you, Salvatore."

"Everyone here calls me Sal. Also, don't bother paying for your meal tonight. You will be willing to give me your entire wallet the next time you visit, because my food is that good."

"Thank you again." Bulma smiled cordially. "I really appreciate it. I'm going to join everyone at our table now."

Vegeta left his seat without looking back at either of them. "Thanks for providing tomorrow's lunch, Sal. Would you have someone bring Cherry out front?"

"Of course! Go get your car, and no need to rush." He returned his attention to Bulma, lowering his voice. "Prince is a really good fella. Don't be deceived by that hardened shell of his. He's just been through a lot. _Capisce?_ "

"Damn." Bulma's face blushed. "You heard me?"

Sal's sympathetic eyes remained fixed on her as if he wanted to say more, but that wouldn't happen. "No, I read lips sometimes because I'm nosy. Now go enjoy your meal before everyone else eats your portion. The wine your lady friend picked out is very good."

Trunks handed over her wine glass as soon as she sat down. "So what's the real deal with this Vegeta guy? Why don't you like him?"

"How did you…"

"I'm not an idiot, mother. You looked like you were choking on dried fish bones over there, and you haven't said one word about this guy to grandma Bunny yet - and you tell her everything, which she then tells me. That lets me know he's bugging the hell out of you. Don't expect me to call him 'Mr. Prince' forever, either, especially if you're working together, which I assume you are."

The "get me the hell out of here" expression on Bulma's face was unmistakable. She seized a piece of pizza from Trunks' plate and crammed it into her mouth. Her face wavered between smiling and scowling, because she couldn't show _too much_ motherly amusement over his jokes - or his wisdom.

"Watch that smart mouth, you little brat. Cecilia, hand me the wine bottle please!"


	5. Shared Beliefs

Bulma sat in the middle of her bed sipping coffee, surrounded by papers and notebooks. She was trying to stay focused on the job despite fighting off intrusive thoughts from the previous night. But she also had fun bonding with her son. He was the joy of her life. Yamcha's appeals hadn't fully convinced her that Trunks was unhappy with them being apart. She avoided thinking that her ex-husband was selfishly using whatever technique he could to re-enter her life.

 _Let it burn._

The night Bulma found him having sex, in their bed, with a Capsule sports writer named Candy Olsen had finally torched their marriage beyond repair. He had been cheating on her for a while, but this offense was beyond the pale. Fortunately their son wasn't at home, because the battle that ensued was massive, with Bulma throwing every piece of furniture that wasn't nailed to the floor. Frightened, Candy cowered in the bed while Yamcha dodged the fusillade until he could grasp his wife's arms. But she managed to elbow his midsection where it would hurt most. While he writhed in pain on the floor, she grabbed Candy's hair and whispered in her ear. The color quickly drained from the woman's face. Bulma graciously gave her five minutes to leave, emphasizing that she would professionally destroy the woman's reputation if this humiliation was shared at the office or anywhere else.

It was bad enough that speculation about Yamcha's other sexual escapades and alcohol abuse had practically kept the gossip tabloids and television shows fresh with copy and flush with money. Before and after his injury, some of his teammates and their wives tried to support them, and they all kept quiet about it, unless Bulma gave them permission to share some details either anonymously or on the record to the media. She would never forget their kindness and stayed in touch with a few of them, including Cecilia. As a reporter, she understood the public interest in the downfall of a sports celebrity as talented as Yamcha. She also knew from the beginning of their relationship that they would be in the news, but she also intended to protect herself and, later, their son from those who weren't guided by any sense of principle or conscience. She could spot them a mile away.

She didn't cry that night. She had never acted like that uncontrollably before and never wanted it to happen again. Trunks was seven-years-old at the time. Afterward, Yamcha moved out of their penthouse permanently. Bulma walked to work before sunrise the next day blasting Adele's "Set Fire to the Rain" on her headphones. She hadn't changed clothes or combed her hair. The walk wasn't short by any means either. After receiving a strange phone call from her, Jack rushed over to Capsule, finding her dazed and confused in a small conference room where they talked sometimes. Most workers wouldn't arrive until later, so Jack swiftly removed her from the building before anyone discovered that she was having a mental breakdown. Bulma spent six months in a severe depression, living with her mother in a town outside of the city while receiving psychiatric care. Her father and sister cared for Trunks back home. She had depressive episodes since her teens, which had been managed well with good medical support, but this was the most ill she had ever been. She hadn't been caring for herself appropriately: not taking her medication consistently, not exercising or eating well, and overworking. Being so blatantly disrespected by her husband had completely overwhelmed her emotional foundation.

She recalled waking up one day in her bedroom to find Jack seated there, monitoring her with a pained look on his face. "You won't stay in this place here forever," he said with tears in his eyes. "You come from strong stock, duchess. Remember that. You're like a daughter to me, and I'm so sorry that I didn't step in more forcefully to help you. I want you to start giving everyone hell again - and please begin with me. " Bulma could barely speak, but she reached for his hand. Then, finally, she cried.

She eventually emerged from that grave condition with the entire family committed to providing stability for both her and Trunks. In the almost seven years since then, while her life was nowhere near perfect, she had kept her dignity, just like her uncle Jimmy said. She continued working and winning.

"Mom? May I come in?"

"Sure, honey. You're up early. Your community service starts at 10 a.m., right?"

Trunks walked in carrying two bowls of their favorite cereal, which contained more sugar per serving than any breakfast should have. His hair stuck up everywhere, making her laugh. The pajamas Yamcha's mother bought were also too large, as if the woman expected the boy to grow wider instead of taller.

"Yeah, it starts then," Trunks mumbled, handing her a bowl and spoon. "Laugh at me all you want, mom, but your bedroom hair always looks worse than mine. I just wanted to say I had a good time yesterday."

"I did too, kid."

"Are you okay?"

She pushed her papers aside. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You've just kind of seemed sad lately, I guess, like over the last month or two. Do you not want to move back in with grandma and grandpa?"

"Trunks, I'm not sad, and I haven't changed my mind about selling the penthouse. I'm ready to move. I've just had a lot on my mind between work and…"

"And me and dad, right?"

"Well, yes. That's some it."

"Have I done something wrong?"

"Of course not, son. I know it sounds silly, but with you being older now, I worry sometimes that you may resent us for not being together."

The calm look on Trunks' freckled face transformed into firm seriousness. "You can stop worrying then. That's the last thing I want."

"Wow." Bulma set the bowl on her nightstand. "I certainly wasn't expecting that emphatic response."

"I love dad, and I know you forgave him, but being with him would make you unhappy again. I don't think _I could_ forgive him if something happened to you, like when…"

"Like when I went through my depression."

"Yeah."

"Come here, baby." She put her arm around his shoulder as they laid on the pillows together. "That time was terrible for your father and me. I'm sorry you were caught in the middle. Yamcha has his own struggles, as you know. He's trying to get back on the right track, at least."

"That's fine, as long as he doesn't expect you to clean up after him – just like grandpa Charles says."

Bulma glanced at her phone. A calendar invitation from Jack appeared onscreen for 11 a.m. She accepted the summons to the rescheduled planning meeting. "My father doesn't mince words, does he?"

"Nope! That's why we love him. Now what's up with the Vegeta guy? He seems decent, although last night he looked like a tiny storm cloud danced over his head while you were there."

Bulma laughed out loud at this observation. "Not this again. Honestly, Trunks, nothing is 'up' with that man. I'm unhappy because your godfather asked him to work on a project that I've been dealing with on my own for a while. Vegeta has a well-documented history for not being the easiest person to work with, and so we got off to the wrong start. That's all."

Trunks doubted his mother's censored version of events. Bulma was a seasoned pro at telling just enough of a story so she wouldn't have to lie. Her son presumed that she started an argument with Vegeta at first, even if she hadn't intended to, and the man fought back hard. _Good for him._

"Maybe that's why Jack wants you to work together."

"What do you mean?"

"Mom, are you serious? You're no joy to be near sometimes when you don't get your way either. Maybe you need someone like him around - who can stand up to you - to finish the work."

"Oh, thanks a lot, son. I'm not that bad, and you seem to like having me around, but perhaps that's only for food and shelter."

"Of course I do, but you also know I'm right," he replied, nudging her arm. "Anyway, I say give the guy a fair chance. Besides, I liked eating at Sal's. Better to make friends than enemies to stay fat and happy."

"And _I say_ it's time for us to prepare to leave home. By the way, keep in mind that it's not your duty to take on my troubles, okay? You're still a teenager – one of the smartest and cleverest I know – so enjoy this stage while it lasts. Rest assured that it will go downhill after I die, when my lawyers say I purposely left no money for you in my will."

He kissed her cheek. "I'm done now. I love you, mom."

"I love you too, cutie." After watching him leave, she put on her bathrobe and stood on the penthouse balcony overlooking the city's skyline, smoking a cigarette.

* * *

Vegeta heard a bell ring near the kitchen. The student who lived in the apartment beneath him, Yael Bronstein, signaled that she would be coming up soon. Texting worked too, but they both shared artistic appreciation for the ornamental nineteenth-century fixtures decorating his brownstone, especially at the parlor level, where he lived. Cherry yipped excitedly as he opened the door, rushing full force into the woman's legs.

"Down, girl!" they shouted together. Vegeta covered his face as Yael's booming laughter echoed on both sides of his entrance, probably awakening neighbors who were rarely up at 5 a.m. He wasn't fully coherent himself, but he planned on arriving at work early. Fridays were wild-card days for anyone working in his business. Either one had quiet time the entire day to plan, or some spectacular news happened – which often meant working nonstop through the weekend. From there, big stories could go on for weeks, with everyone in the newsroom helping out in some way. Vegeta may have been Capsule's "special project" employee, but, just like everyone else, he had to be ready for anything.

"Good morning, Mr. Prince! Mother wants you to come for Shabbat dinner tonight – oh, and here's a loaf of challah for your morning toast. A friend made some. Did I tell you that I'm Jewish?"

"Very funny, Yael – and don't lie to me." Vegeta rubbed his eyes and stepped aside. " _You_ want me to come. I have only spoken with your mother twice, when you paid your security deposit and first month's rent a year ago."

Frustrated, Yael clucked her tongue at him. "Stop being so grouchy. I speak the truth. The Bronstein family would love to have you dine with us. You can hear me sing zemirot tonight with my sister Adina. I try to put my conservatory training to good use."

"You know what? I _like_ being grouchy _, young lady._ It's better than feeling nothing at all – or being in a casket - wouldn't you agree?"

"Ugh. I could say you're beyond hope, Mr. Prince, but I don't believe that. Anyway, we're all staying in the Bronx this weekend with my mother's former high-school classmate, so if you're busy working I'm happy to take Cherry with me. I have permission. Regardless, you have an open invitation for dinner. I can play Chopin, too, if you arrive before sundown, since I know you like the piano."

"I realize now that most invitations I receive are convenient excuses for stealing my dog. Go ahead, Yael. I planned to work this weekend, so thank you for offering – and for the challah. Now get out my sight."

"I'll come by later then! Take care of yourself. By the way, a gentile friend of mine has an attractive cousin you should meet. She's in her forties, just like you, and she adores muscular guys. She reads a lot, too."

Vegeta impatiently tapped his cane. "If you value breathing air, you will leave quickly and silently."

He would never understand Yael's morning liveliness, but at least she had left him wanting to hear Chopin during breakfast. With some amusement, he pondered how diverse his tastes in music, art, and food had become. He had come a long way from his poor childhood. Despite the difficulties back then, he maintained a burning desire to learn about the world, and, fortunately, good people in his community encouraged his efforts along the way. Yael paid below-market rent, with utilities included, because she was studying music on scholarship. Vegeta would've let her live for free had her widowed mother not insisted that she pay something. It's not like their family had a lot of money, and he remembered what that was like for him. He owned his home outright, in one of the world's most expensive cities, because of another's generosity. Offering similar support felt right to him. He also hadn't told Yael about investing the rent money in a mutual fund for her. She would need it later.

He hadn't accepted Jack's meeting invitation yet, until a reminder appeared on his phone. Early examination of Bulma's work showed that their investigative team had a lot of work ahead. He spent his trip to the office deciding what his highest priorities would be. By the time Bulma arrived, after 9 a.m., he had already been there for two hours. A vase of long-stem pink roses had been delivered to her desk, which no one told her about when she came in. Although it wasn't his concern, her lukewarm response was peculiar, especially after she read the card attached to the bouquet. She threw it in the trash and dropped her purse on the floor. Then she left for the cafeteria. She had been away for about fifteen minutes when Jack stopped by their workstation looking concerned.

"Vegeta, did you see who brought those in?"

"A woman delivered them, but I wasn't paying close attention. Now that you and Bulma are acting like someone died, I would appreciate knowing what the problem is. The last thing I need…"

Jack sat down next to him. "Look, just don't give her a hard time until we get through the meeting."

"You've _got_ to be kidding me, Jack _._ Is this how it's going to be? Didn't we have this talk already?"

"I'm not asking you to play second, Prince. I'm asking you to dial it back, just for today. Bulma won't provoke you, not after this."

Frowning, Vegeta removed his reading glasses. "Would you mind telling me whatever _this_ is now? Is someone harassing her?"

Jack rubbed his thick gray mustache and looked up at Bulma, who had returned with a bread basket and a plate of sausage and eggs. She hadn't heard anything but easily figured out the topic.

"The roses are from my ex-husband, guys. Mystery solved."

Jack recalled Bulma carrying a pink bouquet of baby girl roses at her wedding. This wasn't good. Yamcha was definitely working his way back into her life.

"Duchess…"

Bulma held up her hand. "Jack, please, not now. Vegeta and I have much to do today, and you have an office to manage, right? So let's move on. I want war room one reserved for as long as our team needs."

Vegeta reclined in his chair. _Holy shit. Did she just say "Vegeta and I" like a normal person? Hell, maybe I should send red roses and write Yamcha's name on the card._ He tried moving his mind away from this awful temptation.

"That's where I planned to meet anyway," Jack replied. "It's all yours."

Their "war room" was the largest of five meeting spaces located in the cavernous concrete bowels of Capsule Media. Select groups of writers and editors staked out the rooms to work on big stories. No one could enter without having an exclusive computer access code. Team members dined, slept, stored files, wrote, danced, fought, and sometimes cried together in them. Friendships grew or ended there.

Vegeta left the newsroom before Bulma and Jack to see the place. He was surprised to find a trolley driver eagerly waiting as he exited the rear elevator.

"Hi, Mr. Prince. My name is Christos Alafouzos, and I oversee facility operations down here. I'll take you to the room."

"I can't walk there?"

Laughing at the question, the younger man leisurely draped his arm across the steering wheel. "You could, but that would be foolish. You don't seem like that kind of guy to me."

Vegeta grumbled to himself. _I suppose it's good that this horse-toothed jackass doesn't know that I could crush his knees in less than a minute._ " _Hn._ I guess I'll take your word for it. Let's go."

"Trust me, Mr. Prince. You will thank me later for the ride. Someone is always around to help, no matter how late you're here. We can even leave a trolley if you prefer driving yourself."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, Christos. _Understand me?_ "

"I certainly do," the man replied cheerily. "Jack said you don't tolerate much nonsense."

"Make that _any_ nonsense - and from now on just call me Vegeta."

What causes people sink so far into a life of treachery that redemption becomes nearly impossible? In their own unique ways, the two reporters weighed this philosophical and spiritual question each time they worked on stories detailing how innocent people were cruelly victimized. So-called "white collar crime" was no exception. Beloved homes, older people, environmental damage, and thousands of jobs were just some of the casualties when human predators took advantage of those less powerful or knowledgeable than they. Arrogance sometimes got them caught, but their punishments didn't always match the crimes. Lawyers, detectives, journalists, and others who confronted these terrible situations often told themselves to "live to fight another day." Bulma and Vegeta shared this belief, no matter how many dead ends they faced as writers committed to uncovering the truth.

Blacklands Health Corporation owned several hospitals and medical clinics from New York to Florida, and some on the West Coast. For more than twenty years the company clashed with U.S. investigators over illegal activities in different areas, paying more than $600 million to settle its last case. So far the top executives who ran the business were able to argue that middle managers and regular workers acted on their own to commit crimes, which meant that the company never admitted wrongdoing and could agree to work with the government on investigations to avoid prosecution in court. Proving that much of this bad behavior was encouraged from the highest levels of the company was hard - and, adding salt to the wound, Blacklands still managed to make some money for investors on the New York Stock Exchange.

One day, two plainspoken women approached Bulma to discuss frightening examples of patient abuse that left her stunned. That's where her story began. The more Vegeta learned in the war room about the circumstances, in her own words, the more determined he became to nail it. Indeed, their pursuit would be David versus Goliath - especially after one woman was found dead a month later in New Jersey's Passaic River, more than fifty miles outside of the city.

This wasn't an accident. 

* * *

**Notes: I went into this chapter thinking, "What makes these two get up in the morning?" (I really did.) What emotional common ground do they share beneath the surface? How do they react when they feel safe? How Bulma and Vegeta relate to each other at first is a mystery wrapped around a larger one - but they share a goal. Thanks to everyone who left comments for the last chapter. Keep them coming!**


	6. None Shall Sleep

It was Saturday evening and Bulma was lost in her thoughts. She hadn't finished brushing her hair or applying makeup either. The shocking death of the quiet, thoughtful woman who helped launch her investigation weighed heavily on her mind the entire week. Vegeta and Jack and others working with them seemed rather dispassionate over the situation, which wasn't surprising, but she would have liked having someone else she trusted to discuss her feelings. Everyone had to keep quiet. They also didn't know when an autopsy would be performed to officially determine how the woman died, so they had no firm confirmation yet that a crime had been committed. No one on their team, however, believed otherwise. Something awful happened to this much-loved wife and mother two, which was planned and carried out intentionally.

Bulma tacked a small picture on a bulletin board in the war room as a reminder about their mission. "Anna White." She had spoken without realizing it. As soon as she sat down, Vegeta pushed over a stack of papers to read, nodded, and left her alone in the room. Everyone who had access to the secured space entered through two doors. He stood outside of the second entrance, resting heavily on the wall and listening. He didn't leave until her crying stopped.

She moved closer to the mirror, thinking about how much foundation her face needed. Trunks' reflection behind her brought some comfort, as his presence usually did. He was growing taller. It seemed like it happened overnight.

"You look nice, mom."

Bulma puckered to apply lip liner, but she was still having trouble picking the lip gloss. She finally settled on a light pink frost. Not too boring, yet not too alluring. "You're being kind, kiddo."

"No, really," Trunks said. He entered the boudoir carrying a small gift bag. "You do look nice. I just wanted to remind you we should leave soon."

"You look pretty good yourself. We have good taste in casual clothing, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Trunks put his hands into jean pockets and smiled. For his mother, it was one of those rare, precious moments that he resembled the little boy she remembered. Now his physical features were more pronounced. The muscles in his arms had become more chiseled. Even his deep-set blue eyes seemed more mature. He definitely resembled the attractive men in her family – and her - more than anyone on Yamcha's side. The devilish, vain side of her liked that outcome.

Even though she looked great, Trunks also noticed that she was dressed more conservatively. She wore a fitted, long-sleeved linen shirt with a V-neck, buttons at front and at cuffs, and a pair of high-ankle black jeans. Her shoes were flat, backless loafers, which she hadn't put on yet. She even traded her customary diamond studs for silver teardrop earrings.

Bulma stood to search for an appropriate purse to match her attire. "Since when have you been a stickler about being on time? I'm usually the one pushing you out the door when we go places."

"I figured that since Vegeta - uh, Mr. Prince – is doing this nice thing for Billy and me that we should respect his time."

Bulma's eyebrow jerked out of suspicion. Her son was up to something. Time for a soft discussion. Then she would nail him to the wall once he told on himself. "Well that's certainly nice of you. I'll be ready soon, honey. Why don't you stay here while I finish?"

"Okay. So how has your week been? My grandmothers are bugging me for more news about you than a handsome young lad of my age can provide, and it's annoying. You should do a better job of texting them immediately after they leave voice messages."

Bulma pointed for him to retrieve her shoes. "This week was kind of rough. Very rough, actually."

"Why? Did something happen?"

"Our reporting team is knee-deep in work where it's hard to focus on much else – and we're exhausted. We're still expected to work on other stories, too. It's just a part of what we do, but I'm ready to tell Jack that we need more breathing room. Most of our time should be dedicated solely to our project now."

"Can you tell me what the story is about?"

"I can't, honey. It may take some time before that happens, and I trust that you won't say anything to your grandparents or anyone else about our chat."

Some parents would have laughed at Bulma for trusting her son with information she didn't want shared, because all kids have talkative friends – who naturally have nosy, talkative parents. But she rarely asked Trunks to keep confidences. He readily agreed because he liked being "in the know" about her job. Even when tired or vexed, her excitement was apparent. He thought about spending more of his free time at Capsule to be closer and learn from her. Maybe she would feel less guilty about the hectic pace of their lives over the last few years. Trunks felt they had more quality time together than Bulma gave herself credit for, even with his grandparents around to help.

"What does Mr. Prince think about all of this, mom?"

"Vegeta is who he is. You got a feel for his personality at Sal's that night. He's exceptionally focused. He doesn't upset easily about situations others might find harder to ignore."

"So I take it you're getting along better?"

 _Hmm. I know he's happy about this dinner, but now he's finding ways to discuss Vegeta._ Bulma crossed her arms, looking slightly curious - and displeased. Trunks adored his godfather Jack and usually asked about him first. Since the boy met Vegeta, though, she hadn't heard him mention Jack in weeks.

"Trunks, we're there to work, not to be best friends. Truthfully, I was furious that Vegeta promised this dinner when you met. Neither of us knew him well – and we still don't. As soon as St. Anthony's won the championship I considered saying he shouldn't feel obligated to do it."

" _Oh,_ _come on_. Why? That doesn't make any sense." Like many kids his age, Trunks balked at what he considered to be unreasonable parental overprotectiveness.

"It makes perfect sense to me, baby. I didn't want you disappointed if Vegeta found some excuse not to follow through. I'm your mother. Not only would it have been awkward if he screwed up, but I would've been _beyond_ angry. Working together with him has been hard enough, although we're starting to understand each other better, I suppose. That's all one can ask to get the job done."

Trunks reached for her hand to walk in the living room. They swung each other's arms back and forth playfully until he hugged her waist from behind. "Mom, not every guy you meet will be like dad, okay?"

She hoped her son wasn't taking this route, but now his plot was clear. Vegeta had made a stronger impression on him than she realized. Trunks hadn't seen the man since they met, and now, god forbid, he was scheming to make them a couple.

 _Incredible. My son needs step up his game. I'm not falling into this trap.  
_  
"Look, Trunks, _I know_ what you're doing here," she said sternly. "Stop it, unless you secretly _want me_ to cancel our plans tonight."

"But mom, you say I have knack from telling good people from bad ones. I just think…"

Bulma placed her hands on his shoulders. "Darling, please, don't try to play matchmaker. The thought of dating hasn't crossed my mind in a long time. Even If it did, it certainly wouldn't be that man. I'd rather go bald and have all of my teeth pulled. Vegeta has good qualities, and he's a smart guy, but he is too full of himself. Also, there's an old proverb about dating people you work with that I strongly believe in."

Yet again Trunks would be felled by another verse from his mother's tortuous behavioral code of conduct. She seemed to have more restrictive rules for herself than anyone else. The list probably now exceeded Hammurabi's Code and the Analects of Confucius.

"Do I really want to hear this?"

"Doesn't matter, kid. I'm telling you anyway. The saying is, 'Don't shit where you eat.'"

Gagging, Trunks pushed her toward the front door. "Oh, that's just gross."

"Just listen to me. Usually, it's not always good idea to date coworkers – or shag them regularly – especially if you work for a company like mine. Many people have made their relationships work, but if they break up the results could cause problems that could possibly get them fired. But back to the original subject. I have told you honestly how I feel, so now I expect you to respect my wishes."

"Fine, mom. I'll leave it alone."

"Good. Let's get out of here."

* * *

Vegeta was seated, with his eyes closed, waiting for his four guests to arrive. He showed up early enough to have quiet time to think. The restaurant was full, but Sal and Berta had generously provided a calmer spot on the patio for everyone to dine. He hadn't shaved all week, but he managed to look presentable - and alluringly mysterious - in his sliver crew-neck shirt and flawlessly creased black pants. Although he preferred having his cane, he used an elbow crutch instead to bear weight better and extend the pace of his walking. His strapping appearance caught the attention of a couple of mildly drunken young women at the bar when he first entered the restaurant. As he passed by, he heard one say his body looked "tastier than a hot, buttered biscuit." For a moment he was unsure whether to feel flattered or nauseated. Snickering, the other woman said, "Yeah, he is attractive, but I wonder what happened to him. He would almost be perfect, except for that crutch. Sad."

Vegeta stopped and turned around. Obviously they hadn't realized how loud they were.

"Since you asked, miss, this less-than-perfect 'biscuit' was injured during a military peacekeeping mission overseas," he said with a frigid stare, which slowly converted into a relaxed, victorious smile. "Does that satisfy your voyeuristic curiosity about my 'sad' condition, or would you like to know more?"

Startled, the loud-mouthed maidens almost knocked over their martini glasses. His felicitous response threw them completely off balance. "Oh gosh," the second woman said timidly. "You heard us. I'm so very, very sorry. What I said sounded awful, but I meant no harm. I know this won't make up for everything, but may I buy you a drink or something else?"

"No."

He left them looking deeply ashamed, which satisfied his ego, but he wasn't judging them as harshly as they likely believed. Doing that would make him a hypocrite. No human was immune to saying stupid, hurtful things – and he had uttered his fair share.

Sal touched the back of his chair. "Prince, you don't look so good today." Trying to fight off a headache, Vegeta pinched the bridge of his nose before looking up.

"Is the food almost ready, Sal?"

"Yes, my friend, and you look out of sorts. Don't change the subject."

Vegeta picked up a hand torch to light a candle. "I'm just tired. I'm working a lot now."

"Compagno, you've been working a lot for a while, but you haven't appeared this ragged in months. Those nice clothes and hairy face don't fool me. Your look like someone punched you."

"Lay off, man," Vegeta replied curtly, waving him off. "Everything is fine."

Sal passed by him to light the remaining candles across the wooden table. "I know that look. You aren't sleeping well again. Have the… nightmares about what happened to Maya returned?"

Vegeta placed his elbows on the table and covered both eyes. "Sal, _don't use_ what I told you in confidence about my wife against me. I just need to get through tonight and keep my promise to Bulma's son. I don't expect to stay long. If you really want to help, then do what you do best - keep them entertained and well fed."

Sal took a long, intense breath before pouring Vegeta a glass of water. "I already planned to, son. I already planned to. That's a given. Rich girl's kid might be disappointed if you leave early - and she might be unhappy too - but I guess I'll back off with the questions. Just making sure you're okay."

" _That's right, Salvatore_ – _back off_ ," Berta said from the side door. Although she hadn't heard everything, she had observed Vegeta's increasing discomfort and finally lost patience with her husband's behavior. "He is still our guest, and you're being rude by hounding him before his group joins him for dinner. Now then, sergeant, would you like wine or maybe some other drink?"

"A beer is fine, Berta."

"Molto bene! The waiter will bring Peroni." She tugged on Sal's shirt until he bent over to kiss her. "Let's go, big mouth. The table is set suitably. There's nothing else to do for now."

After Sal lumbered back inside, Berta returned to the table. "Give me your hand, Vegeta."

"Berta…"

"I said give me your hand. I'm your elder, so humor me and do what I ask." She placed a string of beads into his palm. "I think you know what to do with these, yes?"

"I know what they're for."

"I understand, and there are many good paths one can choose for comfort and healing. I don't judge others who do. That's the problem with this world. However, I hope you decide on one that works for you, even if you never use what I've given you here. Love surrounds you, and you are of worthy it."

Vegeta cleared his throat to collect himself. "May I have that beer now?"

"Certainly. Paolo should have been here already, and it looks like your lady friend has arrived first."

Vegeta closed his hands around the rosary beads. "Trust me, a 'lady friend,' she is not. As I told you, this is for her son and his friend. I try to keep my promises."

"Yes, I know." She patted his hand and smiled. "Sal and I will dine with you once all of the food is served. Our staff is under strict orders not to disturb us unless the kitchen blows up."

The host escorted Bulma to their table holding a one-page wine list. Vegeta, who sat at the head of the table, moved politely to stand.

"Don't bother standing up, Vegeta."

He resisted the urge to holler out of sheer frustration. He was trying to be on his best behavior, and here she was, attempting to break his spirit in less than two minutes.

"Look here, we will get through this night _without_ incident, got it? I'm not necessarily thrilled about spending my Saturday night with a churlish, bratty coworker I see almost daily in an underground vault tighter than Fort Knox."

Bulma ran her fingertips along the uneven edges of the table. "Remember, _you_ suggested doing this. My son has pestered me half the day about it - and I wasn't trying to insult you. Really."

Her eyes examined his crutch. He didn't want to, but Vegeta had to explain before she wondered if he was secretly dying or some other nonsense. He steadily straightened himself while Paolo brought his beer.

"I'll stand until everyone arrives, Bulma. It's not that much of a problem. This crutch is easier for me to use right now. You might see me with it for a while at work."

Trunks, Cecelia and her son Billy approached them with warm, welcoming smiles. The tea lights on the table flickered, creating bouncing shadows that added to coziness of their space. Trunks sat next to Vegeta, with Billy on his right. Across the table, Cecelia also positioned herself next to Vegeta.

Bulma considered not bringing her friend to avoid verbal disasters, but she also needed a barrier to ease tension. Cecelia was masterful at making her and their sons laugh. However Vegeta responded mattered less, and she already warned Cecelia to avoid acting like they were in a Greenwich Village single's bar.

Within minutes the servers delivered colossal plates of food: veal scaloppine with lemon butter and capers; angel hair pasta tossed with garlic, olive oil, and fresh herbs; and arugula salad with sliced pears.

Trunks looked around the table with amazement. "Wow, Mr. Prince. We only expected, like, five kinds of pizza."

Vegeta laid his napkin down. "I could have them switch the meal if that's what you want."

"No!" they all shouted.

"Then let's eat – and Bulma, stop wasting time with the wine list. Decide now, or I will."

Bulma gritted her teeth. He finally found a way to order her around – again.

 _It's a terrible thing to think, but I could stick a hot fork into my son for believing that man and I could date. But damn, Vegeta has great taste in food. That is useful. I wonder where else he eats._

To his surprise, Vegeta suddenly felt Cecelia's hand on his leg. "So tell us more about yourself, Mr. Prince. You must be an interesting person to capture both Bulma and Trunks' attention. She doesn't spend time with just anyone either." Bulma promptly kicked her, causing the woman's voice to choke briefly. The death stare on Vegeta's face, though, felt gratifying.

Sal and Berta soon entered from the side door carrying their choice of wine instead. Berta nodded at Vegeta, who silently signaled back he felt better. She squeezed his shoulder and smiled. From there, the couple took over, telling stories and joking joyfully with the boys and their mothers. Vegeta shared a few tales, with no mention of his military service, and then became quiet. He preferred watching the others enjoying themselves, especially Trunks. But his eyes kept drifting toward Bulma. At one point she caught him observing her and, later, he noticed her doing the same.

Sal was a big guy, but even he couldn't fully withstand the effects of multiple glasses of wine. He would never allow himself to act like a drunken fool, but he could have fun. He stood and pointed at the boys.

"Young men, have you ever heard of Giacomo Puccini?"

Trunks and Billy looked at each other, and then back at him, shaking their heads. Vegeta sipped from his wine glass to cover an impish grin. Concerned, Berta touched her cheek and sighed. "Oh god. Not now, Sal. Dessert and coffee haven't been served, and it's getting late."

He shook his hand to quiet her. "Boys, Puccini was a famous Italian opera composer. I know that might sound boring to you, but would you give it a chance? I will sing a solo from an opera called _Turandot_. It's called _Nessun Dorma_ , and I'll explain what it means afterward."

"Sure, Mr. Marino," Trunks said. "I'll try anything once." Billy looked less excited about the offer.

And sing Sal did - complete with instrumental music for the patio set up by remote control. Bulma, Cecelia, and the boys were awestruck by his faultless tenor. Berta raised her glass to her husband as they clapped excitedly. Vegeta's hands sat atop his crutch while Sal bowed in his direction.

"That was… beautiful," Bulma said. "So what does it all mean?"

Berta approached her husband, who offered her the rest of his wine. "The entire opera is about a beautiful princess named Turandot who developed a hardened, cold heart against men for various reasons that perhaps one could sympathize with. She decreed that any prince who desired to marry her had to answer three riddles. If they failed, they were beheaded."

Cecelia looked up. "Damn."

" _Nessun Dorma_ means 'None Shall Sleep,'" Sal continued, "and the aria is sung by an unknown prince, named Calaf, who successfully answers Turandot's riddles. Her father, the emperor, says they must marry to fulfill the oath, and she becomes highly upset. Calaf then gives her a way out– by guessing his true name. If she can't before sunrise, then they will marry. If she does, then he agrees to be killed. The man is rather confident that he won't be."

"The princess then commands her subjects to discover his name, threatening them with execution," Berta said. "Her suitor, however, is assured that he will succeed, saying at one point that his kiss will 'break the silence' that makes her all his – which it does. Never having felt that kind of intense passion before, Turandot admits that her feelings had been conflicted since Calaf first arrived in her life, and she cries. The prince then reveals his name. Turandot could've ordered him to be killed then, but instead she married him."

"Dessert is ready, everyone!" Paolo shouted from indoors. Berta and Sal returned to their seats, delighted that the boys were peppering them with more questions. Once the old couple got everyone laughing again, Bulma carried an ashtray to a darker spot on the patio, next to a small olive tree, to sit. Vegeta's dark eyes followed her path. Her back was straight and head held high, but her overall manner was languid, as if her mind had been heavily yoked.

Cecilia turned sideways on the bench. "Bulma, hon, are you okay?"

Swinging her cigarette lighter, she flashed her best carefree smile. "Stop fussing over me, Cici! Of course I am. I need to stretch before the muscles in my gorgeous legs waste away. You guys keep having fun."

Trunks, who wasn't fooled by her playful brush-off, punched Billy's arm and laughed to distract everyone. He had also kept a side-eye on Vegeta's reactions all evening.

"Maybe Sal can teach us some boxing moves too?" the boy asked jokingly. "I might need a trainer, or maybe I can learn opera."

Vegeta wiped his mouth and stood. "Excuse me, everyone. I have to speak with Bulma about work, unfortunately."

"Really, Vegeta?" Sal protested. "Please, not tonight. We're trying to have a good time over here."

"You know what we do for a living," he replied, fitting his crutch on his arm. "Nice touch with _Turandot_ , too, Salvatore. Remind me _to pay you back_ for the… entertainment."

Sal laughed. "You owe me nothing."

Bulma bristled listening to Vegeta come her way. She wanted to be alone with her cigarette for at least five minutes to recover from another overt attempt by someone else to play matchmaker - in a blatantly sexist way, at that. All she wanted was dessert. She did not want to know the extent of what Vegeta may have said about her. But then again, he didn't seem phased by what happened, which relieved her mind some. He had no reason to be angry with Sal, because he wasn't interested in her and didn't give a damn about appearances.

"Move over."

"And people call _me_ bossy? No one asked you to come here, Vegeta. I prefer smoking alone."

"Would you prefer that I lie down and pretend that you viciously tripped me? It would be believable."

Bulma flicked her ashes. "Just get on with it. Here, take the pillow from behind me."

"Don't need it. It won't help with how I'm feeling anyway. I didn't come to be comfortable."

"Then why are you here, sergeant?"

"This is the first time for you, isn't it?"

"What are you blathering about this time, man? I'm not in the mood for a long colloquy. I hear enough at work."

"It's the first time that someone died on your watch, isn't it, Bulma?"

She looked away. "What do you care? You and Jack didn't appear to be moved by it. It was business as usual in your world. Besides, I covered some violent crime stories when I was younger too. I can handle it."

"But you never had someone _under your watch_ die. Dealing with those already dead is tough, but it's different. You still could have talked with us. I'm surprised that you didn't run to Jack first."

Bulma blew a long, curled smoke stream overhead. "Let's get something straight. I don't run to Jackson for anything. He's been one of my closest friends and advisers for years. From day one he believed in me, when other reporters thought I wouldn't stick around and gave me holy hell for it. Even my family thought I was nuts. I have a biochemistry degree and still could probably run my dad's company."

"I get that - but have you thought that, just maybe, you've been unfair to Jack? Take me out of the equation. In the back of his mind, maybe he wanted this arrangement to put some distance between you. If he didn't hire me, it would've been another person. He has a hard time saying no to you more than anyone else. You said yourself that he needs to run the office, so perhaps you hesitated sharing your feelings for a reason - but in this case, you needed to talk with someone. We don't like each other much, but we have to trust each other. We're good at what we do – and this story must be told."

Once again Bulma felt embarrassed. She was depressed earlier about not having anyone to confide in, but she wasn't eager to have him be that person.

"You think you know everything, don't you?"

"Woman, if I did, I would've found a new planet to live on years ago, instead of this shitty mud ball, and picked at least ten people I could somewhat tolerate to live and grow food with. Actually, make that five people. So far, you don't make the cut."

He lowered his head enough to examine her reaction. Recognizing the joke, Bulma almost cracked a smile. Then she moved away from him. "We should return to the table."

"Go ahead, duchess. I'll be there shortly."


	7. Crutch Day

Today was a crutch day. Bulma used this observation as a barometer for Vegeta's physical condition and mood. He would likely feel uncomfortable if he knew - perhaps even pissed off - which she understood. Some days were good for him, others not so much, but under no circumstances would he ever accept having what he could achieve solely judged by that. Same goes for depression, Bulma thought. There is no "battle" to be fought. It just is: a life to be lived as fully as possible. But she also felt everyone on the investigative team had toiled together long enough over six months to be concerned about each other's welfare. For his part, Jack was relieved that "his children" were settling their differences. He didn't expect perfection, but seeing Bulma and Vegeta volley multiple discoveries about the project like excited tennis players satisfied him. They still had heated, knock-down arguments about direction, but their overall collaboration and smarts set a good example for the others. Bulma seemed to have fully accepted Vegeta's leadership, Jack believed.

She and Vegeta had been keeping longer hours than others, until he directed everyone to leave "at a decent hour" to relax and be with their families regularly, with Jack's permission. Everyone wondered who body-snatched their normally taciturn, demanding commander. He simply said their hard work met his ideals. As team leader, and now special editor, Vegeta was offering the equivalent of miniature "block leaves," just like in the military, for them to manage their lives. The team needed to be fresh, including Bulma. Seeing Trunks' picture on her desk was a catalyst for Vegeta to make her leave as well. When his mother wasn't in the war room, the boy would occasionally study or talk with other reporters at the office. Everyone adored him and willingly shared stories about their "glory days," and Trunks never bored listening to them. He was just as curious as Bulma, and Vegeta liked having him around almost as much as she did.

Christos met Bulma first as she approached the war room midmorning. She had come later than usual because she planned to be outside most of the day checking leads. The woman's death still occupied her thoughts, but the team believed a breakthrough was close for the entire Blacklands investigation. Jack and Vegeta had been correct that there was much more to the story – and that Bulma needed help.

"Hey there, Ms. Brief. Sleeping in today, eh?"

Smiling, she wagged her notepad at him. "And here I thought you technology rats in this vault just watched soap operas all day. I do appreciate your concern about my rest schedule, though."

He shut off the driver's cart and dismounted. "May I ask you a question?"

Bulma stared hard at him. "It all depends on what it is."

Attempting to calm her suspicion, the young man put up his hands defensively. "I'm just saying that maybe you could, uh, get Mr. Prince to leave early today. It looks like he sorely needs a break."

Bulma hadn't been in the office a few days, which Vegeta was fine with. They shared their results online or by conference call, since she and other team members had been digging for information at courthouses, checking databases, and contacting or meeting with people across four states. Because a major informant had died under suspicious circumstances, Vegeta also ruled that no one could interview certain people alone or visit specific investigative sites without accompaniment. Either he or Bulma would go with them when necessary.

"Christos, I know I haven't been in for a while, but I'm sure not all that much has changed about Vegeta's appearance," she said. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm sure you can tell we're all tired. That's just how it is."

"Bulma," he persisted, "look, I regularly check the access logs to the war room. Vegeta's hours have been far longer than anyone's lately. I guess he goes home sometime, but he certainly doesn't stay there long."

It didn't escape Bulma that Christos was using their first names to clearly show his concern. Her eyes softened as she patted his arm. "You know damn well that Vegeta would probably snarl at you for tracking him, so I'll say thank you in his place. Trust me, sweetie. He's fine, OK? I check in with him regularly."

"OK, Ms. Brief," the man sighed. "I guess I'll take your word for it then. Let's go."

Christos's behavior confirmed to Bulma that this was _definitely_ a crutch day. Vegeta just needed a little more physical support to handle business and might be a tad irritable. She entered the room hunched over from carrying her backpack, which would qualify as a mini-apartment.

Vegeta, who barely looked up, coughed lightly. A steaming cup of tea, smelling of lemon and honey, sat on the table. His crutch lay on the wall behind.

"You're in civilian clothes today, duchess," he said, rubbing his throat. "Are those Dolce and Gabbana or Levi's jeans?"

Bulma noticed he sounded hoarse; thus, the need for tea. "The first one, you jerk," she said playfully, although she was impressed that he knew the difference. She moved next to the refrigerator and, then, to the copier for a closer look. The neatly stacked tissues nearby were another clue.

"Um, how are you feeling today?" she asked, pouring coffee.

Vegeta tapped his pencil grouchily. "As long as I am not dead in a ditch, dismembered, or in a persistent vegetative state, I am well. Why are you _the_ _only_ _person_ on this team who hasn't memorized this?"

After dropping her belongings on the floor, a habit he hated, she deliberately spilled a container of ink pens on the table. "Look up at me, Prince – now."

Pushing his notebooks aside, Vegeta grabbed a tissue to wipe his nose. "You're supposed to be on the streets today, not here."

Realizing that Christos was right, Bulma's arms fell to her sides. Vegeta obviously hadn't been sleeping much – if at all. It seemed like he had reached the breaking point suddenly. "Oh, man, you don't look good. What's going on?"

He shook his head, warning her not to approach. "Just stop, OK?"

"Nope, I won't." Bulma leaned forward on the table. "How dare you lecture us and not follow your own advice. Are you bathing and brushing your teeth regularly? What about Cherry? Is she being cared for while you're spending nights here?"

Surprised, Vegeta couldn't help but laugh. "You're worried about my dog now? And you all think _my personality_ is changing? All right, fine. I have stayed later working on other stuff, and today I'm feeling under the weather. I rarely get colds, which are usually not death sentences, remember?"

She wasn't buying it. "If you're here much later most nights, then you're not working efficiently - which is unlike you, so something else is wrong. This isn't the time for stoicism."

Vegeta covered his nose to stifle a sneeze, which irritated him even more. He still had hang-ups about appearing weak in front of others, especially her.

"I'm going upstairs, Bulma, to work like I was before your disruption."

"Prince, come on…"

He threw a pen for her to catch. "Look, this isn't the time to get soft, duchess. I would prefer trading barbs to keep our minds lively. Yes, I have pain, every single fucking day —because I know you're wondering about that too – and it sucks. But compared with others I've seen, I'm a marathon runner. You didn't seem to think my disability was a problem when we first met, right? I was still that asshole _you bumped_ in the lobby that day, who later forced you to clear your rubbish bin of a desk."

"Well, I was kind of being mean," Bulma said quietly.

"You were," he said, sipping more tea, "and I had fun ticking you off. You have your answers. Now leave me alone. We have work to finish, and I need you focused. Thanks, though."

Bulma's assessment of the mess Vegeta was in had been correct generally. He hadn't been sleeping well for a while. Even years later, military training had inured him to long-and-short periods without slumber, and being sick along with it, but this predicament had become achingly exhausting. His nightmares were relentless - and even when he didn't have them, insomnia was the unwelcome replacement.

He had been snapping at everyone for a while, and they expected more of it until he started kicking them out to go home. He was serious about rewarding them, and he could keep his mind off sleeping in their absence. He purposely made himself uncomfortable and cold and god-knows-what-else in the war room to deal with it. Being at home too long worsened the situation.

He reached for his crutch, which now seemed miles away, hoping he could stand quickly enough to reassure her. Instead, his eyes blurred, until he thought he saw an animal run nearby. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the wall.

 _Oh, that's just great. I'm fucking hallucinating._ He staggered again until Bulma caught his arm. She remained preternaturally calm, almost like an experienced medic, and held his wrist. His pulse felt faster than normal.

"Hey, I'm sending you home," she said, lifting his chin. "Even a vampire like you needs to rest."

Vegeta re-positioned his crutch, pushing her away. " _Tch_. You're sending me home? I said I'm OK."

Still watching him closely, Bulma gathered his keys and other belongings. "No, you're stupid. Maybe you'll listen if I snatch that heavy-duty crowbar from your shoulder, hmm? Where'd you get it from anyway, a Pennsylvania steel mill?"

"Woman, I'm getting a 'Hunchback of Notre Dame' feeling from you," Vegeta growled back. "My bar is quite high with routine insults, but you're testing my patience." He tried to protest more until his eyesight blurred again, forcing him to sit down. Bulma massaged his neck until he could collect himself. It was an innocent gesture, he believed, but it began to feel too good - so he quickly stopped her.

"Just shut up and drink this, professor," she said, handing back his tea. "You talk too much at the wrong times. I emailed you my encrypted files. Let's review them later. We're leaving for Brooklyn. You need sleep, and seeing a doctor wouldn't be a bad idea either."

Vegeta rubbed his eyes. "Here's a newsflash. I would sleep if I could – and you're not coming with me, Bulma."

"Well, at least you're agreeing to leave." She dialed a phone line upstairs. "It's duchess. I'm getting car service. Prince really isn't feeling well and shouldn't be driving or taking the subway. Yeah, I know, Jackson. He's stubborn. He needs a day off or two at home. Do me a favor and page Christos. We'll leave from the back doors on four-east. Thanks - bye."

She extended her hand to him. "See how easy that was, wise guy? Ready to go?"

This time he took it.

* * *

He looked so tired, and no one had really noticed – except for Christos, at the tail-end of it. Bulma recalled her depression, when the exhaustion felt bone-crushing. No one had really noticed until her near-breakdown in public. For others it seemed like everything happened so fast, but there had been a longer build-up. She didn't need a psychiatry degree to see that with Vegeta now. He took the job at Capsule not just to score a big project and make money, but to distract himself from something else.

Vegeta hoped their ride to Brooklyn would be shrouded in silence, but this time Bulma wouldn't shut up. She almost sounded nervous – a significant attitude change from earlier.

"Vegeta, you have a tenant, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Well, maybe she can check on you then."

He continued looking out the car window. "She does, Bulma – more than you'll ever know – but I don't need twenty-four hour chicken soup delivery."

"Christ!" Bulma waved her hand in front of his face. "You almost fainted – twice. Give the tough guy crap a rest. Besides, I thought you were a renaissance man who occasionally carried rifles. What's her name? Is she around?"  
 _  
_"Her name is Yael, and she returns tomorrow with my dog – and I did not almost faint," he said, looking away again. "Stop trying to make the situation worse than it is. I probably haven't had enough water, too."

The driver opened the private window separating them in the car. "Mr. Prince, Ms. Brief, we've arrived. Do either of you need any assistance?"

"No," Vegeta curtly.

"Yes, we do," Bulma replied, shushing him. Vegeta was too tired to fight with her publicly, so he conceded. He had made this too easy for her. Feeling dizzy, he took the driver's hand reluctantly because, on a good day, he knew he was physically stronger. Understanding Vegeta's unhappiness, the man handed him the crutch and lowered his voice. Bulma had already left to unlock the front door of the brownstone.

"Mr. Prince, I tried reading your work, when I'm not working myself, although I'm not always great with vocabulary. Maybe I'll finish listening by iPod. Anyway, I just wanted to say a guy like you cares about the little guys… but maybe you should care for yourself now. I had PTSD when I left the service too."

Vegeta wondered how in the hell this guy figured it out. None of his book- or magazine-writing about the military had ever touched on _that_ subject. Exhaling, he looked down. "It seems like everyone around me says I should take better care of myself."

The driver smiled, tipping his hat to him. "You should listen to them then, sergeant - including that lovely and very impatient lady waiting over there. Sometimes good people can read between the lines, like I did with you just now. Are you feeling stable yet?"

"Of course I am," Vegeta said, straightening himself. "Open my wallet. What branch were you in, by the way? And what's your name?"

"I'm Walter, and I'm not a Marine like you," he said, laughing. "I'm an Army man - and no, I won't take a tip from you. Let the super-rich folks do that. I make good money driving from Capsule and other places nearby, but here's a card with my phone number. I'll take you anywhere you need to go – and at a much lower price. Emergencies are free."

Concerned, Bulma approached them. "Is he giving you trouble, sir?" Vegeta rolled his eyes, while Walter laughed louder.

"No, ma'am! I just told Mr. Prince I won't take a tip from either of you. That's all. Take care."

Vegeta's home was beautiful both inside and outside. At first Bulma wondered how he could afford it, living alone, without swimming in debt. It wasn't a mansion by any means, but New York property taxes alone could make people cry - especially unmarried ones - but there were ways of getting by. Maybe he wasn't that financially strapped.

Feeling her hand on his back, Vegeta stopped in the entryway. "Since you still have my phone, dial nineteen, thirteen, and fifteen – all separately," he said. "Also, I don't need you to hold me up now."

"What does this do?"

Lights brightened in the hallway, kitchen, and another room. "The place is hard-wired to make it easier to do some things, and it's redesigned so I can get around better," he replied. "Go get some water. We can discuss your plans for the rest of the week."

Bulma frowned as he walked into the study. "We're not talking about work, Prince."

"You're depriving a weakened man of vital fluids," he said mischievously. "I may faint."

* * *

She returned and found Vegeta sprawled on a sectional sofa. The bed had already been pulled out. Handing him water, she moved one part of the couch to sit in front.

"I'll stay until Yael comes back," she said. "I'll even avoid cursing, but let's make another deal. I'll discuss work once you tell me what I want to know. Why aren't you sleeping? I need –- we need you focused, too."

"It goes in cycles," Vegeta said. "This just happens to be one of them. It's caught up with me, but I always get through it. Right now I'm so tired that I might fall asleep shortly, for real."

"That's a vague answer, and the last part is a lie," Bulma said, leaning on her knees. "I know this isn't the best solution, but I'm giving you two of my sleeping pills – one for each day - until you see a doctor. Make that happen soon."

Vegeta coughed – from shock. "You _carry_ sleeping pills around like peppermints? Unbelievable - and there's no way in hell I'm taking them."

"Oh, get over yourself!" Bulma said, slapping the sofa. "They're non-addictive. Considering how exhausted you are, one pill should knock you out cold for at least eight-to-eleven hours. No dreams or anything."

Vegeta squinted at the tiny pills. "I want to sleep calmly, duchess, not be tranquilized like a bull elephant."

"Do you want slumber or not, Prince? Take it now. I'll call Yael and check in later too. We have about thirty minutes before you feel anything, so hurry up and ask your dumb questions."

Again, this woman had found another way to persuade him - quickly. That made him uncomfortable. How did this happen?

"All right." He swallowed and crossed his arms. "My turn now. I want you to put some distance between you and Mauricio. He's provided good information, but from this point someone else should be there when you see him - preferably me."

Taking a swig of water, Bulma walked to the opposite side of the room. "No way, no how. _He is one of my best sources_. It's better if we meet alone. What's up with this?"

"Because… now we have two other decent whistle-blowers, lots of data and victim statements, and Capsule is lawyering-up to heaven to protect our work," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. The drug worked faster than he expected, and it was becoming harder to focus. "We've been journalists long enough to know that we're likely… likely… being watched now, too. It's time to tie-up loose ends to nail this. We need to finish the puzzle."

"This is bullshit!" Bulma protested. "You're acting like the guy will slit my throat! Reporters aren't murdered often in the U.S. - not like in other places. We get sued, slandered, occasionally beaten, or thrown in jail. Our team accepted your rule, but I thought you were flexible about it."

Vegeta's face reddened. Her voice sounded familiar, and he couldn't take it anymore. " _I said no, Maya!_ "

"Maya?" Bulma said softly. They were so used to arguing that she almost forgot why they were there. "Who is Maya?"

"I meant…no, _Bulma_." Realizing what he'd done, Vegeta shut his eyes and coughed. "You were right about this pill, and my answer is still…no."

"I'll make some tea for your throat," she said, opening the door. "I'm glad the medicine's working." They were so good at getting under each other's skin – or terrible, really. He respected her work, of course, but his selective strictness as a leader got on her nerves; yet, in that moment he also seemed so alone.

 _He needs some kind of bed sheet or blanket – and another pillow. It's freezing in there. He'll die of pneumonia that way._ The linen closet in the hallway was almost bare. Bulma considered entering Vegeta's bedroom at first but hesitated - but the door was partially open, and his entire home was as neat as a pin.

 _It's not like I'm stealing money_. She raced to another closet, attempting to ignore everything else in the room. Then she saw a photo of him, in a Marine dress uniform, standing next to woman wearing a wedding dress. He had placed a small jewelry bag beside the picture frame, which she didn't disturb.

 _I'm such an idiot. Either he's divorced or his wife is deceased. I knew I should've made tea first._

She seized a thin blanket and returned to the study, where Vegeta was now sleeping soundly. After covering him, she sat down to think.

"At least you're getting rest now, Prince. I hope you feel better."

* * *

 **Notes: Hi, everyone. Thank you for the thoughtful comments. I took them to heart, and I had a chance to re-envision a favorite DBZ-Vegebul moment. Also, if you're still reading, I fixed a little seasonal mishap. :)**


	8. I'm Sorry Too

**Hello there. This is a long one since I wasn't keen on breaking up the story's trajectory. Hope you like it.**

* * *

Bulma kept her promise to stay with Vegeta until she fell asleep on the sofa. She often slept semi-upright, laptop straddling her legs, even when she worked late at home. She awakened a few times when Vegeta sneezed – often in multiples, which made her giggle – but he remained in a deep sleep. He probably wouldn't be indulgent with thanking her afterward, but she was OK that. She then recalled his attempts to be supportive at the Brooklyn Promenade, after they first met, and during Trunks' victory dinner at Sal's. They _really didn't_ like each other at first, condemning each other as unbearably arrogant, and yet Vegeta had been consistently empathetic with her, kindly extended himself to her son, and didn't run from the colossal challenge of wrangling the story with her. If she were him, she probably would have walked out the first day - but tenacity flooded his veins, just like in hers.

She also disliked him at first because he didn't consider her a threat. They would've likely got on each other's nerves regardless, but her urge to make him "know his place" in the pecking order was intense to the point of absurdity. She couldn't understand why. She already had "queen bee" status at Capsule, but she was also considered generous when other reporters wanted to do better.

Vegeta was unlike any man she had ever met. He was the threat, but not because of his competitive, wily journalistic talents. He was a seeker, and she felt that power radiating from him. He was attempting to conquer himself, challenging her to re-examine her ambitions – and inhibitions. He was earnest but wasn't seeking perfection. His mouth wouldn't be so foul, like hers, if that were the case. Reflecting on that thought, she smiled and drifted back to sleep - until he grasped her hand.

"Go… home, duchess," he said drowsily. His voice barely exceeded a whisper. "It's late. Trunks…"

Yawning, Bulma turned on a lamp. "My son is fine. He's concerned about you, though. How do you feel?"

"Less tired. Just…need more sleep."

She interlaced her fingers with his. "That's very good, professor. You need it. I'll go home soon, but we still have much to argue about later." His grip felt gentle, appreciative – affectionate. Bulma nodded, placing her other hand on top of his. "You... had me worried."

Vegeta rubbed the side of his face. "Tissues."

"What?"

He pointed. "Need… tissues." The sneezing started again before Bulma made it on time.

Chuckling, she shook her head. "Well, you've definitely got a nasty cold now." Despite being gross, she wiped Vegeta's face a few times after these fits while he slept. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and god knows she wouldn't tell a soul to ruin their equally tough reputations at the office.

"Be at…work at 10 a.m. tomorrow," he said, closing his eyes. "I'll be there before you." His breathing slowed until he returned to sleep.

Bulma looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "Sure you will, Shakespeare. Sure you will." She picked up her backpack and observed him again before walking out. "My job is done here."

Her nurturing that day had been a long overdue apology, and that was it. She would repeat that in her head to get through the ride home. The way their hands joined, however, said otherwise. She sat down outside of the brownstone and lit a cigarette, gazing at the full moon.

"He won't remember, and I will forget. We have work to do."

"Hey, rich girl," Sal said, approaching the door. He carried a bag of food, as expected, as well as a single red rose. "How is Prince feeling now?"

"Oh, Sal." Bulma dropped her head and laughed softly. "You didn't. That rose is beautiful."

"Please take it," he said, pulling a chair next to her. "He is a son to me. You know that. Thank you."

"He's slept peacefully all day," she said, taking his hand. "I know I promised to stay, but I really need to get home. He'll understand. Good night."

Sal glanced at his wedding ring after Bulma left. "He's finally met the right one, and so has she."

* * *

Vegeta woke shortly after sunrise rubbing his throat, which felt like fire. "What are you doing here?"

"I made chamomile tea," Sal replied, handing the cup to him. "It should help with that sore throat. Rich girl called me and Berta last night. I said I would help after closing the restaurant. She had to get home and thought I was the best person to stay until Yael returns."

Vegeta groaned, draping his arm over his face. "All of New York will think I'm on death's door before this is over."

"Shut up for a minute and drink the damn tea, sergeant," Sal bellowed. "Bulma texted saying you had this ridiculous idea about going to work. You haven't even changed from the clothes you had on yesterday, buddy. Start with that."

Vegeta glared angrily at him. "I was just exhausted. Also, if I said I would be in the office, which I don't remember, then it's probably for a good reason."

"Son, you are more than _just exhausted_ now. Normally you would've fought harder to stop Bulma from coming here, although that shouldn't embarrass you. In any case, you won't complete whatever you're working on successfully unless you get some help, compagno. Please."

"I'll take another day off, Sal, and I'll attend some group therapy sessions this week, _but I must work._ I'm in too deep with our story. I'm the team leader, for heaven's sake."

"I expect you see a doctor, attend group therapy, and take more days off," Sal replied, handing over Vegeta's crutch and shoes. "Check on work later. I was uneasy about Bulma providing her sleeping pills, but you needed something. You got rest last night, so I'm glad it helped. Aren't you?"

Vegeta remained drowsy, prompting his friend to help test his balance. "You know I try keeping my personal and professional lives from mixing too much."

"Yeah, whatever, Prince. You messed that up after bonding with Bulma's kid. Wherever Trunks goes, his madre will be there too. Now clean up and get in bed for a while longer. I know you're usually as strong as an ox - and you could probably shove my head through the wall right now - but you're still not one-hundred percent. Would you let me cook something and bring it to you?"

"I suppose that works," Vegeta said, saluting him. "Thanks. Semper Fi."

Sal saluted back. "Do or die! Oorah!"

Vegeta submerged himself in a hot shower while Sal busied himself in the kitchen. He closed his eyes, massaging muscles from the neck down. He had shown vulnerability with Bulma in a way that he was unprepared for. For months he had spent hours _counseling her_ for work- when they weren't arguing and she was ready to listen - but this time she gave freely of herself emotionally to care _for him_. Then, he remembered their disagreement from the previous night.

"I called her Maya." He bent down, covering his face. "God, what is wrong with me?" He hoped she wouldn't bring it up later.

It was business as usual when he returned to the office a week later. The time off was longer than he preferred, but the nightmares had stopped, at least for now. He hadn't shaken his cold completely, but that was trivial. Feeling impish, he slammed his foot on the door before entering the war room.

"Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"

"Zee-row!" the team shouted, laughing riotously. "Reporting for duty, sir!"

He moved to the front of the table, scowling. "All right, you jokers! Quiet down. Way too much frivolity in here. You've had your rest, and now I've had mine, so get off your narrow asses and be productive. _Oh, yes._ _Tell me how I'm feeling today_."

"As long as you aren't dead in a ditch, dismembered, or in a persistent vegetative state, you are well," everyone replied dutifully.

"Splendid," he said, keeping a straight face. "I'm almost proud of you pitiful trade-school hacks. Remember, your ink pens are your rifles. _They are your life._ You must master them as you must master your life."

"Hey, sergeant show-off," Bulma yelled from the back of the room, "you forgot your campaign hat and green utility uniform today! Give us fifty sit-ups right now!"

"I'm the show-off?" he said, raising his eyebrow. "Yeah, right. Very well, Ms. Brief. Since you're class clown today, why don't you begin today's lesson?" He coughed hard as she approached the front of the room. Bulma, who resisted the urge to touch him, looked back to reassure everyone. Although they were told few details, the team fully understood why their valiant leader needed time off from the office.

Vegeta gave them a thumbs-up while an intern slid a glass of water to him. "Thank you. I caught this miserable cold from you germ-carriers. If I develop another disease, then I will come for your children - so wash your grimy little hands often."

Everyone joked to deal with the stress and sadness of their investigation. Each step seemed to uncover something worse. Across several states, according to the team's findings, at least one Blacklands medical center had a doctor performing heart procedures on people who didn't need them. In some cases, vulnerable elderly people were manipulated into having major surgeries. Much-loved family members had died in some cases, leaving their grieving relatives stunned and confused. The team poured through endless medical records these families handed over, state evaluations of the hospitals, and Blacklands' bills to the U.S. government. What they didn't have was an airtight case whether executives tacitly supported these activities, which made a lot of money for the company - but they were very close.

Anna White, now dead, had been the first key. The former nurse had complained to superiors about surgeries at her New Jersey-based hospital and was largely ignored. She quietly collected as much evidence as she could, while trying not to break the law and shield former and current patients from harm. Another nurse named Kate Manning met with Bulma to support Anna's story. Afraid, the woman had since left town but kept in touch with the team, maintaining her position as vital whistle-blower.

Bulma pointed at a large bulletin board full of connected dots and lines. "You see this, guys? _You did this._ Great work. Vegeta and I are so proud of you, _and I can taste a win_. Keep working your contacts, and keep Anna in your thoughts. She was murdered for exposing the fraud. We all know this to be true, and now have a convincing amount of evidence, but this goes all the way to the top. Blacklands' executives looked the other way while their subordinates acted unethically and recklessly with impunity. The FBI may have them on the run, but we're well-positioned to hold their feet to the fire in a different way. We'll seek comment from executives soon enough. They can either confirm or deny, but we're going for big guys, not just the doctors on the ground."

As usual, her passionate, encouraging speeches transfixed the group. Vegeta, however, remained uneasy.

* * *

Following the meeting, Bulma hurried into the newsroom nearly tripping over her feet. She had to find the right shoes from the eight "emergency" pairs of heels and flats stashed underneath her desk. She bounced excitedly into Jack's office after settling on one.

"You got some time for a smoke, Jack?"

Irritated, he tapped his fingers on his desk. "What do you want, duchess? Can't your _other editor_ keep you busy?"

"Don't be nasty," Bulma replied. "Leave the door shut if you don't want to be bothered. Have you forgotten where we are, or is your sour attitude just from old age?"

"Let's go before I change my mind," he said, handing her a cigarette. "Is this about Blacklands?"

"No. It's about Vegeta."

Jack stopped. "He looked fine to me when I saw him earlier, but we didn't talk. Something else happening?"

"Oh, he's fine… it looks like." Bulma hesitated, knowing her reply wasn't entirely accurate – not a lie, just incomplete. "He hasn't shaken that bad cold, but he was chief comedian at the meeting this morning. The team loved it. Let's wait until we get outside to finish talking if you don't mind, though."

Noticing her discomfort, Jack lit her cigarette as soon as they left the building. "Start talking now, kiddo. I don't have all day."

"So I found out Vegeta was married. Did something happen to his wife?"

Looking tired, Jack exhaled. She never made it easy for him. "Yeah, Bulma. What about it?"

"How long _have you_ known?" Her unspoken question was why he hadn't mentioned this until now.

Jack placed his arms her shoulders. "Besides telling me, Prince would have said something if he wanted anyone else to know. He's never written about it. Now let the subject rest. I'll assume you found out accidently at his home."

Slightly hurt by his abrupt response, Bulma moved away. "I was just trying to help when I saw their wedding picture in another room - and I don't appreciate your tone."

"So what's the rest of the story?"

"Well, we kind of got into an argument," she said, fidgeting. Sometimes she felt like nervous teenager when he addressed her like this.

Aggravated, Jack slapped the brick wall, causing her to jump backward. "About what, Bulma? First, you two never 'kind of' argue. Second, couldn't you hold your sharp tongue just one time? I mean, you helped the man get home and then picked a fight with him? Now I'm also starting to think you snooped around his house."

"Hey, give me some credit here!" she shouted angrily. "I wasn't snooping either. I see I touched a nerve since you're so piqued about it. I just think Prince is struggling with something related to her. I think he called me by her name when we disagreed about meeting a source. It's Maya, right?"

Jack clasped his hands behind his back. He was reluctant to say more but figured she would back off after hearing the entire story.

"Fine, Bulma. I'll level with you, under my rules only, and I trust you won't break them. You must not discuss this unless Vegeta brings it up. He and Maya attended college together, but they didn't become a couple until after he finished his initial training, after they met again. By that time she had been working in Washington, D.C. After marrying, they moved around awhile outside of the U.S. to different military bases. When he was deployed on the humanitarian mission, Maya wanted to work in the neighboring country to help displaced refugees at a field hospital and transitional support site. The location was considered relatively safe and protected."

Bulma lit another cigarette. "I assume Vegeta was dead-set against her going anyway."

"He was, but she reminded him of pledge he made before they married," Jack continued. "She didn't want to live on bases exclusively each time he was called for duty in another country, like other soldiers' wives and husbands sometimes do. She wanted to use her work skills before they moved again. Then Vegeta's nightmare began."

Feeling nauseated, Bulma shut her eyes. "Wait - the place was bombed, wasn't it?" She covered her mouth as he nodded. "I remember that. Oh god, Jack."

"Maya was… four months pregnant when she died," he said, blowing smoke overhead. "Neither she nor Vegeta had been in their respective countries that long. He said his wife didn't really have a chance to tell him. My belief, however, is she hesitated. Prince probably would have left his unit against military orders – risking jail time - to make her leave."

"I could see him doing something like that," Bulma said. "When did he find out?"

"His battalion was attacked the same day Maya was killed. He didn't find out until a week later because he had been comatose. He almost had a heart attack from shock when they told him. The rest of his injuries you know about. No person…would ever be the same after that. It's clear that he's blamed himself ever since." Jack choked up. He had witnessed and reported on several tragedies throughout his career – many considered worse than Vegeta's misfortune - but seeing one person up-close carrying that burden was heartbreaking.

He hugged Bulma as she quietly wiped her tears. Vegeta told him three months after taking the job at Capsule that he had been treated for post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. Vegeta knew the risks of telling his new employer – especially while working on contract - but he hadn't had severe episodes in several years and believed his tough-talking manager was fair-minded. Jack said his stellar work was enough and they would figure things out if a problem arose. As a recent widower himself, Jack also empathized with him.

"OK, OK, duchess," he said, faking a stern scowl. "Let's pull ourselves together. We may good at punching holes through concrete walls, but we're both sensitive souls. Prince has been through a lot, honey, and now you know everything. Don't pity him. You can understand why better than anyone."

"He would hate it. Yes, I know," Bulma replied. "Look, I have leave. O'Malley finally convinced me to appear on his show. We get to debate about the soul of journalism."

Alarmed, Jack blocked her path. "That's ridiculous. This is Aidan we're talking about. He's a disgruntled former reporter who is now a shameless, lying, rabble-rousing entertainer. Does your other editor know you're appearing on the show?"

Bulma slid smoothly beneath his arm, laughing. "Damn, Jack. How many times will you remind me that I report to Prince for now? I haven't had a chance to tell him - and I can handle Aidan. His viewers still need to hear from people like us – people who do real work. Keep your television on. It should be fun."

Jack furiously crushed his cigarette on the wall. "Don't bullshit me! You have Prince's goddamn e-mail addresses and phone numbers, along with text-and-video messaging. Hell, you could've paged him before leaving - or, you know, said something _after_ the meeting. You didn't tell him on purpose."

"Actually, you should let me address this with _my other editor_ ," Bulma said, winking her eye. "Bye, hon. Love you much."

"Yeah, right," Jack said as he checked phone messages. "Your love feels like a bullet in my chest - and _I will_ tell Vegeta once he's available. I don't know where the hell he went. Now get out of my face before I throw a dirty pigeon on your expensive outfit."

Bulma adjusted her sunglasses and hailed a taxi cab. As she left, Jack briefly wondered whether his star employees were attracted to each other. He rubbed his forehead.

"Nah, not those two. _Dear god._ That would be a total nightmare - and put me in the grave."

* * *

Jack threw open his office door later that afternoon looking displeased and sipping from a glass. He examined the emptying newsroom with weariness.

"Prince, get in here now. It's getting late and I have some stuff to discuss."

Vegeta observed the higher amount of whiskey in the glass - a tell-tale sign of distress. It had to be about Bulma. He immediately removed his reading glasses and grabbed his crutch. The remaining reporters around the office stared at them curiously while Jack quickly closed the window shades.

"Sit down."

"No, I'd rather stand," Vegeta said. "What's wrong?"

Jack sat on the side of his desk, staring into his glass. "Bulma did a live audience taping on O'Malley's show this afternoon, and he did a bait-and-switch."

Vegeta tried to contain his frustration. "So you're saying his producers changed topics without telling her. She didn't tell me about appearing on his piece-of-crap program. What was she thinking? We're up to our necks in work right now."

Jack nodded and handed him a glass. "Actually, I should have told you earlier too. Here, have some of this with me. It might help with that cough of yours. The show ran commercials earlier saying Aidan and duchess would discuss fake news with Aidan and how it affects legitimate reporting. I'm surprised she didn't leave the studio, but she probably believed doing that would've looked worse in front of the audience."

" _Jackson_ , get to the point," Vegeta said impatiently. "Exactly how bad was it?"

Jack twirled a cigarette through his fingers and poured more whiskey for himself. "Instead, Aidan opened the segment discussing how celebrities are covered by the media. Before Bulma could respond, the weasel introduced Yamcha to discuss how media coverage of his baseball career, alcohol abuse, and philandering affected their marriage."

Vegeta almost dropped his glass. " _He did what?!_ "

"Quiet down," Jack admonished. "Bulma's responses were dignified, of course, but then Yamcha asked her to take him back in front of the audience. He also said Trunks needs his father in the home. Then Aidan launched into this sermon on 'family values,' praising that washed-up playboy's so-called bravery."

Vegeta finished his whiskey, taking great pains not to shatter the glass on Jack's desk from fury. "How… did she respond?"

Jack paused, recalling Bulma's previous emotional breakdown. "Her face went blank. She said they would further discuss the situation privately. Neither of them appeared on the show again after commercials. Aidan later suggested to his viewers that Bulma and Yamcha were reconciling backstage. I highly doubt that."

"Have you heard from her?"

"Prince, I left a few messages on her cell, tried her at home, and texted. I got nothing."

"She'll have to deal with Trunks, so she can't hide forever," Vegeta said, heading for the door. "I have something to do now."

"Hey, where the hell do you think you're going?" Jack said, waving his hands. "Do not go off half-cocked. The last thing duchess and I need is you getting into a fight, _and that's a direct order_. Besides, that cough sounds like a death rattle… and it's your first day back after you completely exhausted yourself. Take it easy, will ya? Bulma can run the ship for another week if you want more time off."

"Have you forgotten that I have endured far worse than a lingering cold?" Vegeta said, throwing ice cubes into his mouth. "Do me a favor and stop hovering like a nervous grandmother. Continue threatening my job daily, like when I first started working here, because I'm a stubborn pain in your ass. It's comforting."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten, sergeant," Jack said, finishing the last of his whiskey. "That's what I'm worried about."

Vegeta looked back. "You're more worried about Bulma, though, Jackson. Don't. She'll be fine, so lay off the booze - for me. Just keep trying to reach her."

* * *

Vegeta leaned on a brick wall in an alley that didn't smell as bad as most others in the city, luckily. He wished the last traces of his cold would vanish. He felt strong and better rested, but the cough was driving him nuts. So be it. The element of surprise remained, and he had plenty of ammunition to use to his advantage. Aidan burst out of his studio's back doors smiling triumphantly. His eyes, however, were hardened. He lit a cigarette, blowing a huge smoke plume at a frightened stray kitten scurrying nearby.

Vegeta cleared his throat. "I suspected that you were an animal hater."

Startled, Aidan whipped around and then exhaled from relief. He automatically knew why Vegeta was there. He considered his options, but the man's hacking cough sounded terrible - and Vegeta was, well, "physically challenged" – so he didn't consider him to be a real threat. He'd allow Capsule's moody "special editor" to blow off some steam for a while and, later, suggest that they have a beer together. If their chat soured, however, he was ready for that also. He wouldn't hurt the guy too much, though, because that would be an unfair fight.

"Hey, Vegeta! Hey, man. How are you, and why are you here? That cough sounds kind of bad."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Aidan," Vegeta said dismissively. "I'm not here to deliver a cake. Cut the crap."

Aidan laughed, strolling over to him. He couldn't resist asserting his dominance now that he had been challenged rudely. If Vegeta wanted an argument, he'd get it. "Spoken like a true New Yorker. It's almost like you grew up here. Look, I know this is about Bulma. She did well on my show today, don't you think? Yamcha's act of love was cathartic for them both - and good for my viewers to see an honest attempt to restore a broken family. Maybe they'll remarry, even. Now tell me, since it appears you're upset, are you… _besotted_ by the lovely lady too? "

Vegeta's eyes slowly scanned him. "Has anyone mentioned that your head resembles an uncircumcised penis, O'Malley? It is quite… disturbing."

"So now you're resorting to childhood taunts?" Aidan replied angrily. "You _mus_ t _really_ like Jack's precious, diamond-encrusted 'duchess.' Did she sleep with you out of sympathy? God, you're a lucky man… for being such an asshole. Yamcha, I'm sure, will help Bulma forget that mistake, though. She'll thank me."

Vegeta almost grinned watching Aidan preen so arrogantly. Attacking the man's vanity and envy worked magnificently. It always did with guys like him. Worse, even though they were the same height, the fool was nervy enough to act threatening. _He doesn't know shit about a real threat._ "O'Malley, remember when I said you're an interesting investigative subject? I meant that, but I'll make sure to get your side of the story, fair and square."

"Your hollow threats won't work with me." Aidan grabbed Vegeta's shoulder, giving him one chance to back off before he punched him. "Consider some antibiotics for whatever horrible venereal disease you probably gave Bulma. Then again, maybe it's time you amputate that bum leg of yours. It doesn't seem to be getting any better either."

Shaking his head, Vegeta shifted his standing position on the wall. "Honestly, if only your viewers could see you now - _and don't you ever touch me again_." He snatched Aidan's arm, yanking it down to ram his elbow into the man's face and chin. Then he put him into a firm choke hold and, using his good leg, kneed him thrice in the balls.

Art on canvas.

"O'Malley, I did society a favor by stopping you from having more children," he said, spitting on him. "Your daughters already hate your guts."

Satisfied, Vegeta dropped the man in the mud, kicking his inner thigh just enough to prevent further attempts to fight back. "That's for all of the people you've lied to, lied about, and hurt on you shitty little show. Your mistake was underestimating your opponent - and don't even think about reporting me to the police for assault. You will regret it, whether I go to jail or not, since I recorded you – which is legal in this town. Also, you're an idiot for smoking in an alley with poor lighting and no security cameras, because I checked that out a long time ago. Tell your company to stop being so cheap and install some."

Aidan lay on the ground wheezing. "I won't… forget… this, Prince."

Vegeta smirked. "Good." He was calm – almost unnervingly so - as he approached a black car a couple blocks away.

"Everything OK, Mr. Prince? I was starting to get worried. I know you said to leave without you after thirty minutes, but I didn't felt uncomfortable with that…"

"I'm fine, Walter. Let's go. The less you know the better, and I need to take care of this damn cough."

* * *

The beating Aidan received felt rewarding in the moment, but the man was an unworthy opponent ultimately. Vegeta knew exactly how to gain an advantage, by positioning himself on the wall for support and luring him in. He could have easily killed the guy, and that's what bothered him the most. He was itching to kick the man's ass when he left Jack's office. Bulma probably would've verbally ripped him apart for his misguided attempt at chivalry, and rightfully so. Self-control was thrown out too easily. Having practiced martial arts, he knew better.

He heard Cherry's barking from Yael's side of the brownstone soon after leaving Walter's car. He had begun to feel like a neglectful parent to his beloved pet, but he had brought her favorite treats to seek forgiveness. He texted Bulma a few times on his way home, which weren't returned.

He hadn't expected to find her sitting cross-legged on his front porch with a chair ready for him.

"Hey, professor."

"How long have you been on my porch, Bulma?"

"Here." She shoved a rumpled paper bag onto his lap. "I got these from the drug store. They're Robitussin syrup and throat lozenges. I'm sick of hearing you cough up your lungs like that. The team keeps staring at me like you'll drop dead any minute, and you've only been gone for a week. God forbid you take a two-week vacation in the future."

Vegeta peered into the bag, wondering what else she bought. "Sometimes you just have to let things run their course, duchess. Not every problem requires an immediate solution." He almost couldn't believe he said that, considering what he did to Aidan.

Annoyed, Bulma gave him the side-eye. "Oh, give me a break, Prince. Don't play holier-than-thou philosopher with me. I'm not in the mood. Saying thank you would work."

Vegeta sat silently staring forward. Any reporter worth his or her salt understood "the pregnant pause" while interviewing: Stay quiet long enough the other person is ready to speak seriously.

"Did you see Aidan's show, Vegeta? I'm… sure Jack told you."

"No, and I don't want to," he said, looking down at her. "You should call him, though. He is worried about you. The whiskey was out."

Bulma chuckled. "So I guess you weren't worried then."

"Concerned, yeah," he said, unwrapping a cough drop. "Worried, not really. I'm curious to know why you set yourself up like that, knowing how O'Malley operates. I need to stand up. You can come inside with me or leave, but I'm not staying out here. Don't expect dinner if you choose the former."

Bulma hadn't taken a close look at Vegeta until the porch lights brightened. His arm was scratched badly, and some of his clothing was ripped.

 _Can't this man stay out of trouble for once in his life? He's as terrible as I am._ She lifted his arm to inspect the damage. "What did you do to yourself?"

Vegeta smirked. "I got into a fight."

"With whom?" Bulma figured it wasn't Yamcha because she would have heard already. "Aren't you a little old for bar room brawls?"

"Doesn't matter," Vegeta said bitterly, "because as you can see, I won – coughing and all."

Bulma knew then to stop asking questions. Aidan was the target, obviously. "Where are the rubbing alcohol and bandages? Do you have antibiotic ointment too?"

"In the linen closet next to you, duchess. I can do this myself once we're seated, you know? Both of my hands work well."

"Just stop – and be quiet," Bulma said as she tended to his arm. "Let's pass on arguing now. Did you bleed all over Walter's car? That was his car, right?"

"No and yes and the police aren't coming to arrest me," Vegeta said, abruptly stopping her to cough. "I can almost hear your thoughts, except for those that are explaining why you came tonight."

Bulma frowned. "Damn it, you stubborn man! Why don't you just take the medicine first?!"

Vegeta's eyes met her gaze, but he refused to yell at her. " _Let's get this straight, sister_. This is my home, not the office. I'm not drugged or sleep-deprived anymore, and while I appreciate what you did for me, y _ou will not_ order me around indefinitely like I'm a naughty child. I have spoken and politely asked questions because you had a terrible day – but my attitude will change sooner than you think."

"I shouldn't have come here," Bulma said, weighing his response. "I just needed… I just needed – oh, I don't know, Vegeta."

He sighed. "You need to speak frankly with someone who won't pity or fret over you unproductively, like others would? I can do that. I offered that option to you at Sal's, remember?"

Bulma looked up and smiled. "I do, and thank you," she said, taking his hand. "You have a unique way of offering friendship and… affection… despite your hopelessly unpleasant personality."

"I could say the same for you." Vegeta paused, staring into her gorgeous blue eyes. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, but… I… wish I could offer more than those things. I admitted that to myself this past week, and I think you may feel the same way. It's amazing what eight months can do."

"Yeah," Bulma said, kissing his cheek. "You're a good man. The people who matter see it clearly – your crotchetiness notwithstanding. Don't you recognize this about yourself?"

Vegeta's arm slipped around her back. Big mistake, he thought, but holding this smart, vivacious, beautiful, and enormously frustrating woman made him feel wanted again for who he was. Only his late wife had made him feel this way. How it ended up being Bulma was ironic – almost comedic – but it felt good and confusing and utterly frightening.

She didn't want him to let go. There might be costs for them both, maybe even emotional pain, but Vegeta's soothing warmth and honesty in that moment touched her spirit. After everything, he admitted that he cared for her _anyway_. She didn't deserve it, but she couldn't walk away – shredding her many rules and inhibitions one by one.

Bulma's body pressed harder until their lips parted. Vegeta closed his eyes, shaking his head.

Yes.

He felt her hands slip inside of his pants, feeling him gently - carefully. It had been years since anyone had touched him like that, and he wanted her, but there would be consequences if they continued down this road. He thought about his crutch and letting her witness his bodily scars. They had workplace relationships and conflicts of interest to consider. Above all, Trunks was becoming attached to him, distancing himself more from Yamcha without the man's full awareness.

Not only could he not offer Bulma more, as he told her, but he shouldn't.

"I'll… I'll take the medicine if you go home," he gasped. More comedy. His head reclined on the wall as her stroking increased. "Oh god, we're not doing this, Bulma. We _cannot_ do this."

Amused, she guided his hand into her pants. She trembled from his relaxed, rhythmic motion on her clit. He was a natural - and burning from his own hardness. "Are you sure you want to stop?" she moaned softly. "You are enjoying it."

"You're damn right on both observations." He shuddered again as her fingers lightly pressed the tip of his length, until he started coughing again. "If we keep going, _you will catch this cold_ , and…"

"You need me focused," Bulma said, rubbing his back. "Yes, I know. Now will you keep your promise and take the medicine?"

"Yes, damn it!" he said, banging his fist on the wall. "Now get out of here, and _don't return_ unless you want to talk, woman – _talking only_. Understand?"

Now looking slightly embarrassed, Bulma quickened her pace to front door. "I am sorry. I got ahead of myself."

"I'm sorry too," Vegeta replied, looking away. "Let's get Walter to drive you home. I think he's still in Brooklyn."

Bulma pulled out the keys to her Jaguar. "Don't worry about that. I drove."


	9. Kiss Me

**Notes: I love old movies. Two of my favorites are "The Godfather" - see my avatar on Tumblr - and "Casablanca." If you've never seen them, do. They were inspiration for visuals and banter between Bulma and Vegeta. The chapter also has some lemony, NSFW content - so that's my warning. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you in advance if you leave a comment or two!**

* * *

Deciding how tough he planned to be, Jack sat at his desk flipping a coin. He had paged Bulma formally rather than yelling into the newsroom. She thought it was a joke until her desk phone rang again. Glancing at Vegeta, she answered her phone. He nodded briefly and continued working.

"What happened?" she said, picking up a reporter's notebook. "You can't open the door and scream for me?"

"Get in my office, Bulma."

"OK." She looked at Vegeta again. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Fine," Jack said. "You get three."

She chewed nervously on her pen. "You know something, Prince. You better sing like a canary now, or I'm hitting you between the eyes with that autographed baseball on your desk."

"Don't keep him waiting," Vegeta said, retrieving his crutch. "I'm getting a quiet lunch somewhere and then heading home to work there. I'm shutting my phone off for a while, but I'll be in touch."

"Your time's up," Jack said. "You two can talk later."

Irritated, Bulma shut the door with enough forcefulness to communicate her displeasure. "Why do you both look like someone died?"

"Duchess, I'm removing Vegeta from your investigation, effective today, and reassigning him to other projects I have in mind."

" _What do you mean?!_ Have you lost your..."

He waved his finger. "Be _very careful_ with your words, Bulma. I am not in the mood for backtalk. Now sit down."

Guessing where their discussion might lead, she slumped into her seat. "I hope the reason is good."

"You heard the gossip that O'Malley was beat up a few days ago, I take it?"

"Yeah, and you don't know if Vegeta was involved."

"And you must think I'm an idiot," Jack said sternly, "and you obviously have a blind spot. Give us enough time and we could prove it before the cops - just like Prince would do if someone else were responsible. I suspect Aidan hasn't filed charges with the police because Vegeta probably has damaging information on him for a story – and, even with that, I'm uncomfortable. Who knows what he said to him?"

"So why haven't you asked him?"

"Bulma, this goes against everything I stand for, but I haven't asked because Prince would tell me the truth - which means I would be forced to tell the police. I _specifically_ told him not to fight anyone. I can't have my workers acting like street thugs and mobsters. That's not what we do. It makes us no better than people who get away with that crap daily – who use their positions to hurt others because they can."

She couldn't disagree, but it did little to dampen her anger. " _All right then_ , boss. If he were involved, then it sounds like you're still letting him get away with it - so don't get on your high horse. You're equivocating to make yourself feel better. You've fought people, too."

"Correct yourself, kiddo. I never picked fights on the job. I've fought off people – never the police - and every court ruled in my favor when I was assaulted. Vegeta would be court-martialed and jailed if he were still in the Marines. He's endangered you, me, Capsule, and your entire investigation."

Bulma felt a lump in her throat. "But we need him. He's led us this far and worked so hard. Please, don't humiliate him like this, not after what he's been through recently."

"Don't you get it? Prince _still has a job_ for those reasons. He accepted my decision without questioning it. Follow his lead and do not cross me _._ Now get out of my office – and I'm sorry."

"I'm going to find him, Jack."

He handed her a large umbrella. "I know. Wear your sneakers." It was too early for whiskey, so he chewed on ice cubes as she sped out. He had never heard her plead on anyone's behalf. She demanded or cajoled him to help people she supported at work – but never pleaded. The way she and Vegeta looked at each other had confirmed his suspicions. He had made the right decision to separate them.

* * *

Bulma walked in the direction of the Theater District, hoping that Vegeta would be at a diner or coffee shop. Other than for work, neither had spoken much since that night in Brooklyn. They had moved past the awkwardness quickly, though, because they had no choice. She buttoned her jacket as rain poured down, trying to avoid cars splashing dirty water everywhere.

 _He could've gone to Sal's, but I'll look anyway. Why am I doing this? Because I'm foolish._ She walked into Lacie's, a diner with décor that hadn't been updated since 1942. A waitress at the counter poured water, looking annoyed with her careful review of the menu.

"You gonna order something?"

Bulma looked up. "Uh, yeah. Just bring some coffee with cream and a toasted bagel with lox, capers, and cream cheese. Actually, make that for me to go, please. "

"OK," the waitress said, lumbering to the kitchen. "It won't take long."

Her mind wandered until the conversational noise faded away, but a familiar tapping on the floor caught her attention. Vegeta had come in soaked and looking more pissed about it than a wet cat. She tried stifling her laughter as soon as he recognized her. Still, he looked strikingly handsome in his sand-colored trench coat and black fedora hat, almost like a classic Hollywood movie star. She had stopped hearing and seeing the crutch altogether - only him.

"Go ahead, duchess. Get it all out of your system. Your face looks like sugar beet from holding it in."

She handed him a stack of napkins, giggling. "What happened to the early lunch, professor?"

"What the hell does it look like? I stopped at a bookstore before the New York monsoon began. I think Noah's Ark just floated down 57th Street." He gave her a wicked grin, having amused himself. "Are you leaving?"

"I was, but I can hang out for a little while."

The waitress eyed them both before handing over Bulma's food. "Vegeta, you look like someone threw you into the Hudson River with cement shoes on. Go sit down with the lady, and take that coat off. You're not getting my seats wet."

"Nice to see you today, Nancy."

"Likewise, pretty boy," she replied, winking at him. "You're not coughing as much. I knew our vegetable soup would help!"

Vegeta nodded. "Always." His expression returned to its usual reflective seriousness as Bulma walked beside him. Having her there felt good and bad. He had successfully sabotaged himself by clashing with Aidan, handing his head to chop off to her and Jack. He wasn't afraid to turn himself into the police. Not at all. He just didn't want to. Aidan initiated the physical fight first anyway… technically. Having everything come crashing down around two people he had come to care for, though, would be devastating.

"I see you have more adoring fans," Bulma said, locking arms with him. "I fully support septuagenarian women dating men your age. Also, she's right. You do sound much better. I meant to say that earlier, so now I can take credit."

Vegeta stared forward, listening to _the way_ she chattered. Even the most subtle displays of emotion had a specific rhythm. That he learned months ago. She tried to sound calm, but anxiety radiated from every word.

"You didn't need to search for me. I'm fine."

"Prince, you sure do lie a lot, considering that your job is to expose the truth. If you yelled at me, then I'd believe you. Anyway, I told Jack that removing you from the investigation was unacceptable."

" _Stop it_ , Bulma."

"Stop what?

"You'll dig yourself in a hole by asking questions. Take Jack at his word, and just stop. That includes asking me more about what happened other night. Focus on yourself and that smart-mouthed kid who keeps stealing from my candy jar."

Bulma wanted to continue their banter until they had a full-blown argument. The glint of mischief in his eyes, which made her stay there, had faded completely. Even when deadly serious, his witty sharpness had become a thrilling companion.

"You mean the candy you put there just for him?" she asked. "Whatever. I'm sending you his dental bills."

"I'm leaving Capsule as soon as you close the investigation with the team, or shortly thereafter, depending on what else I'm doing. Jack knows you'll probably ask for advice anyway, even though I'm not running the show anymore." With that out of the way, he girded himself for Bulma's full-court press.

Feeling far less hungry, she offered him half of her bagel. "Take this, but you should get something else too. Let's ask Nancy or someone else again to order more food. I am not taking the blame if you get sick again."

"I may return to Europe," Vegeta continued. "An editor I know at Spiegel International, in Germany, has tried forever to hire me for her team. I need to recover and be the man I was. I can… do that there. The person you see now, well…"

Annoyed, Bulma kicked the table, shaking it enough to rattle their coffee cups and forks. "Well _what_? How long have you practiced this script? Your acting is terrible. Maybe wait another week to sound more convincing – not just to me but to yourself. You're running away."

"I'm not _running_ from anything! I never run. Either I choose something or I don't. There is no middle ground."

" _Another lie_ ," she said, kicking the table again. "I call bullshit on that one too. You've been in the states long enough now to have strong relationships with people who care deeply for you, including my son, who always wanted an adopted 'uncle' even crazier than Jack."

He crossed his arms and leaned back. "You're the biggest pain in the ass I have _ever_ worked with – and stop trying to start a real argument, because you're not getting one. I could've left town and not said anything, which I've done before. I'm telling you out of respect. It's not like we've known each other for years. Nonetheless, I don't owe you or anyone else an explanation."

"OK, you two love birds of prey, are you ordering?" Nancy interrupted, pouring coffee for Bulma. "I dislike bare tables."

"Just bring toast and tea for me, and put her food on my tab," Vegeta said. "We won't hold this place forever. You'll get an extra tip. Also, we work together, since you're being nosy."

"Nope, that doesn't work for me, Vegeta. I will bring you pastrami on toasted rye bread and soup. You can eat here or take them home. What about you, lady? Start with telling me your name, and I'll take your order."

"I'm Bulma, and are you normally this pushy?"

"Yes, Bulma, and I'll bring you french fries," Nancy said, smiling. "Pretty women always crave greasy fries."

"She makes a good point," Vegeta said. "Thank you, Nancy. We'll eat the fries here. I'll take my meal home."

"Good. Give it about ten or fifteen minutes. See you shortly."

Bulma spun her fork on the table. "Look, I realize you'll never be a social butterfly like me, but there's a difference between enjoying having time alone and being lonely. You're positioning yourself to be lonely, because it will be easier to cut everyone off. That's a terrible reason to leave."

Her entreaties intensified his resolve. He wasn't trying to feel weak, to be weak, which he didn't expect her to understand. He worked hard to reclaim his mind and body over many years. Now he felt deeply upset and humiliated. Why were cracks in the armor so intense? That's why he had to go again.

"My mind is made up, so find another reason to annoy me."

"Fine," Bulma replied. "Do whatever the hell you want. I don't feel sorry for you. You're doing a great job on your own."

He waved his hand toward the bar. "Nancy, pack up those fries, too. Greg, would you please bring our coats and my hat? Let's go, Bulma. The sky is clearing. We'll leave from the side door. People don't use it as much."

Slacked-jawed, she walked outside ahead of him, carrying their bags. Her nose wrinkled from the air's rancid funkiness. Hearing Vegeta groan loudly from the stench broke their tension. They both snickered like little kids, until Bulma took his hand.

"Sergeant, I don't want you to go, but not because of our physical attraction. I need another friend around who understands me. You've made a valiant effort. I want to continue learning from you, too."

"I'm shocked – shocked," Vegeta said with a modest smile, "but there's just so much you don't understand."

She hugged him tight, like a child making a wish. "I know a lot about trying to stay sane, though. I apologize."

"Apology accepted. I'll be fine, honey, and so will you."

Closing his eyes, he kissed her. He couldn't hold it in anymore. Her lips were sugary, probably from the lip gloss, complementing the vanilla scent of her hair. Their tongues intertwined slowly, tenderly, as they pulled closer. The chilly air increased their desire to soak up each other's warmth.

Bulma flicked the brim of his hat. "Do you know who we look like, Prince?"

"Bogart and Bergman," he said, lowering his gravelly voice. "This may not be _Casablanca,_ but we'll always have New York City _._ "

She laughed like it was the funniest joke ever. All one-hundred and twenty pounds of her shook from top to bottom.

"I also see you like old movies. I don't think we're working anymore today, professor."

He kissed her again. "Maybe not."

* * *

Holding his arm, Bulma led him to an elevator. "My parents and Trunks are away for the weekend. He has school today, but we thought it was a good idea after the disaster with Aidan's show. It's only us, the housing attendant, and our cook here."

"Housing attendant? Is that what butlers are called now?"

She unbuttoned his coat and kissed his neck. "You sound just like my mother. I would prefer covering you in bubbles."

"Excuse me?"

"We have a spa equipped for people with mobility issues. My father has them too."

Vegeta felt like yelling but instead pushed her hands away. " _First_ , I don't do bubbles. _Second_ , this has killed my mood for sex. I don't need a charge nurse."

She touched his crutch. "No, you don't need a nurse, but you can accept being pampered. Give it a chance. How does your leg feel?"

"I'm in not in as much pain," he said, looking away. "I've been forced to take stronger medication."

"Well, I didn't bring you to _my parents' home_ out of charity, so get over yourself and kiss me, Prince Vegeta - like the royalty you are." She unfastened her shirt and lace bra, in the hallway, throwing them over her shoulder. "Happy now that my tits are out?"

Vegeta rammed her against the wall, twice, and licked her earlobe – a deliberate demonstration of his physical strength. "We'll bathe afterward. Tell the butler to bring honey to your room…now."

Bulma's chest heaved as he grabbed her hair to smell it again.

They would begin softly and end hard.

"I keep honey in there already," she said. "Let's go." After entering, she propped pillows next to bed's headboard for him. Their hands interlaced as his crutch fell on the floor.

"Let me taste your breasts."

"Not yet," she said, placing his fingers on her nipples. "Close your eyes and touch. How do they feel?"

"One feels ribbed, the other like a rose petal."

"Don't open your eyes until I say so." She slathered clover honey on his lips, gradually moving her sticky finger into his mouth. "Pick one nipple, and suck on it until I tell you it hurts. You'll have the rest later." She poured more honey over Vegeta's mouth enveloped the softer one. He lapped the around the edges, listening to her sigh, envisioning her sensuous smile. She had to be touching herself. His teeth nipped her out of playful spite.

"Bite me again, just like that, and _suck_ _harder_."

And so he did, and she gritted her teeth from the pain, until he recognized an all-too-familiar breathing pattern. He touched her arm and opened his eyes. "Are you trying to climax without me?"

"Everything is mutual as long as we're here together," Bulma said, stroking his forehead. "There is no 'without.' Look at my face. Don't be afraid. Are you having second thoughts like before?"

Vegeta nodded slowly. "It's just been a long time."

"It's been a long time for me too, buddy, and don't worry about the scars. I don't fear them. I'll be as patient as you need. We can do whatever's most comfortable for you."

Her sensitivity made him want her more. "Remove the rest of your clothes, gradually, and stand back, because I want to see all of you. Then hand me your panties." His fantasies about her body were all true – and then some. Her lithe, shapely figure stretched and pulsated – thighs, calves, arms. She was Athena and Aphrodite. He could barely speak.

"Is there something wrong, Vegeta?"

"Silence is my appreciation for revealing the wholeness of your beauty."

His passion kept watch as she reached for him. Removing his shirt, kissing his chest, unbuttoning his pants. Each act represented an earthquake fault line. She lay on her side in front of him, placing pillows underneath and behind his back. His body shuddered and breathing slackened as her hand moved swiftly over his soft-tipped cock. His head buried further into her shoulder with each stroke. She loved the way his solid arms held her chest. They were protecting each other. She was wet for him, but she would gladly stay in that position if that's all he wanted.

"How are you?"

"Happy, duchess, if you can believe it."

* * *

Feeling sanguine, Bulma vacillated between watching Vegeta sleep and waking him for another escapade – and having dinner in bed. He had coughed very little. She would eventually tell him not to worry about any relationship "obligations," real or imagined. If this was their first and last time sleeping together, then so be it. That chat would happen later. He could stay the entire weekend for all she cared.

She nibbled on his ear, still believing that he was snoozing. He reached around and promptly smacked her ass.

"Ow, Vegeta! That hurt!"

He smirked. "But you liked it. Want more?"

"I hate you."

"Good," he said, licking her lips. "Now answer my first question. Are you hungry for seconds?" He inserted his finger into her vagina and pushed up. Touching her fleshy, throbbing savanna had quickly become an obsession.

She lay back, feeling heady and breathless, knowing where his tongue would proceed soon enough. "You want… to stay… all weekend?"

Trying not to laugh, Vegeta pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm happy to, but I will need extra underwear and maybe a T-shirt, or I could stay here naked and blindfolded. I would appreciate regular meals and a couple bathroom breaks."

"Bathing first!" she moaned. "Bathing first!"

Vegeta winced and bit his upper lip. "Bulma, get my sling bag and a glass of water."

She jerked up. "What's wrong? Are you having pain?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said, kissing her. "Take out my pills. We were having fun and I forgot my last dose. Give me about thirty minutes to rest and meditate. I'll be fine."

She massaged his temples until he returned to sleep. He would probably awaken by dinnertime, so she put on her pajamas and silk robe to visit first floor. Most of the house was dim except for the kitchen and the library.

"Alain, please bring our meals to my room later."

"Yes, Ms. Brief," he said, raising his eyebrow. "Does your gentleman friend need _anything_ else?"

"Very funny," she said, laughing. "Are you trying to get on my bad side today?"

"I'm glad you can take a joke, actually," he replied. "Whatever you need, I'll make it happen."

They looked curiously down the hall when the doorbell chimed. Bulma tapped her watch to see video of the person standing outside. She sighed, tucking hair behind her ears.

"Alain, I'll take care of it."

Why was this fool at her house? She stood with her hand on her hip. Opening the door courted chaos, and she just had the best time in bed with a man in years. After what her ex-husband did on Aidan's TV show, this better be good – better than good.

"Hey there, Lois Lane. May I come in? Would you be willing to hear me out this time?"

"After what you did, Yamcha? Oh.. hell... no. You're lucky I didn't bust your balls like the last time you screwed me over. Did you stop to consider our son once?"

"Babe, I meant what I said the other night. I didn't know how else to get through to you. Not even my mother would help me directly. Let's talk for a few minutes, please?"

"Ms. Brief, do you need assistance?"

"No, Alain," she said, waving at him. "Take a break. Mr. Wolf and I will be in the library. He's not staying long."

Yamcha entered looking oddly at her. "Why are you dressed in nightclothes so early? It's 6 p.m. Are you feeling all right?"

"You're wasting your time, Yankee. Focus on what our son needs. He's most important, and he's older now. Keep doing dumb shit like this and see how it affects your relationship. I certainly haven't poisoned his mind against you."

"Look, Bulma, I wasn't trying to humiliate either of you."

"What you did was less humiliating than it was manipulative," she said softly. "When will you grow up, huh? When? What did you think I would do, fall into your arms lovingly on national television? Were you high on something?"

"Nope, but maybe you would have if I did this." He pulled her into his arms, kissing as if his life depended on it. Bulma flailed until his embrace electrified her body and clouded her mind.

Then she slapped him.

"Don't _ever_ do that again," she said, crying. "I _do not_ belong to you! I never did – and no means no, you selfish bastard! _Now get out_. You aren't welcome here anymore."

"You wouldn't be crying now if you didn't love me as much as I still love you."

Bulma wiped her mouth. "Get out before I stab you with a butcher knife, Yamcha. Uncle Jimmy has been itching for years to bury your sorry ass in a landfill upstate."

"Mr. Wolf, it's _time_ for you to _leave_ ," Alain said, displaying a gun holster. "Ms. Brief should have dinner now."

"Holy shit!" Yamcha backed up. "Your butler is strapped with a Glock?!"

Alain smiled. "Indeed, and I shoot _quite_ well. I'll show you out, sir – also, Ms. Brief, your meal is upstairs. I strongly suggest splashing water or using a cold compress on your eyes before eating. We have Sauvignon Blanc in the kitchen, too."

Bulma nodded and walked away. "I will. Thank you."

She returned upstairs after having a badly needed glass of wine – or three. The food cart was rolled partially inside of the bedroom's front corridor. She wheeled it to the bed and sat down, confident that her eyes' puffiness had cleared.

She bent over to kiss Vegeta's eyelids, waking him. "Feeling better, professor?"

He inhaled deeply and stretched. "Yes, and why do you insist on calling me that?"

"Any idiot can tell you once considered studying for a doctorate in history or philosophy, but let's table that chat. Clarice made a phenomenal meal, so let's devour it. How about watching a movie together as well?"

Vegeta raised to see her more closely. "I'm getting a strange vibe from you - and you've been drinking. What happened?"

"Just had a little wine," she said, shaking her head. "That's all I had, and nothing happened."

"Mmm. OK, duchess. Well, have some water now. I'm jealous that I can't have a 'little' wine along with you."

"You can't drink anymore?"

"I shouldn't if I want to take these pills and walk upright. The tablespoon of whiskey Jack gave me earlier this week was enough."

Bulma placed a wicker tray in front of him. "Let's eat."


	10. Consumed

**Note: I changed the timeline a bit in chapters eight and ten for consistency. Bulma and Vegeta have known each other eight months now, instead of the six stated in chapter eight.**

* * *

Vegeta awakened to a darkened room without Bulma next to him. Glancing at the clock, he wondered if she now had second thoughts about their rendezvous.

"Too late for that," he whispered. He chose not to feel grouchy, believing that the sex was a temporary, soul-soothing union between them. The pressure was off now, and "catching" more feelings was verboten. What if a normal argument between them at work suddenly became personal? They were fully capable of acting reasonably under normal circumstances, but they were both emotionally raw. Jack knew this too, Vegeta realized, and was trying to protect them – a paternalistic, meddlesome act, but one borne out of deep concern.

Bulma had left a cotton robe for him and special walking slippers. They looked brand new and fitted well. Maybe he needed to leave before her kindnesses dissolved the protective barrier surrounding his heart.

Every hardship he experienced returned to assault his mind as more people got closer to him. He was brutally abused by an envious, narcissistic father who despised his intelligence and thoughtful determination. The awful man "worked" for a crime boss, sometimes forcing his young son to run errands. Neighborhood guys also working for the boss taught Vegeta to fight like junkyard dog because they liked him, and many encouraged him to get out of the life. He was "special," they said. He never looked back after leaving home. Being loved felt trustworthy with Maya, not unreliable and conditional. He had other friends, but she heard the entirety of his shame and anger, believing unshakably that he would never be consumed by them.

Bulma's attentive care was a pleasurable gift. He was happy in the moment, as he told her, and pleased that she was happy. However, expecting more was folly. He took the elevator to the rooftop terrace, finding her surrounded by shrub plants and other decorative flora – and heaters to tame the cool night air. She leaned on the balcony's edge with a cigarette, extinguishing it only after he embraced her from behind. The torchlights surrounding them glimmered low, enhancing the radiance of her cobalt-blue eyes as she nestled into his chest.

"Don't expect me to kiss you now," he said, dryly. "I was looking forward to it, too."

"Maybe that's why I smoked," she said, moving away to reveal a cedar wood box. Sporting a crooked smile, she handed him a cigar cutter and torch lighter.

"You've got to be kidding, Bulma."

"You may not smoke them regularly, but I've known all along. Consider this payback for irritating me about my cigarettes. I will quit eventually, but there's nothing I hate more than pompous cigar aficionados like you and my dad."

Vegeta opened the humidor to retrieve a hand-rolled Cuban cigar. "You conniving, spiteful woman," he said, inhaling its spicy fragrance. "This is an unfair battle. Also, weren't you worried that I was dying from a cold? Now you're trying to kill me?"

"Ah, the sweet smell of victory." She clapped gleefully, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Of course you can't smoke now, silly. Just enjoy the view with me. It's beautiful."

"God, I will make you pay for this," he said, sniffing the cigar again. "Your father chose well, and you are the devil incarnate."

"I prefer Delilah instead, and your eyes tell me that you're not staying this weekend."

"It's better if I don't, Delilah, but you have until sunrise to tell Samson what's wrong, so that's approximately five hours and fifteen minutes. Afterward, don't expect me to ask again."

Bulma turned abruptly to pour a glass of wine. "Everything is fine. I didn't want to ruin your rest, so I came here."

Surprised and concerned, Vegeta grabbed it. " _Bulma_ , it's 2:15 a.m. Were you drinking before I arrived? How much have you had?"

"Give that back, Vegeta - and no I wasn't! You're complaining about something this stupid after the great sex we just had? Can't you just give your savior complex a rest for one night? It's not like I'm an alcoholic."

"You're damn right I'm complaining," he snapped, "and if you keep talking like this, I'm leaving in this robe- dick swinging in the air - with no shame! You're acting like a defensive brat. _Tell me_ what the happened."

Bulma bit her nails. He was justifiably angry, but there couldn't be another Aidan incident - not with her son's father. "Promise you won't get mad."

"That's a terrible way to open a conversation." He walked past her to the patio table, coughing into his fist. "Besides, I'm already angry. Be worried when I transform into a bat. The morning is young, and there are plenty of necks to bite other than yours."

"Ugh." She tried rubbing his back, but he waved her off. "Here, drink this water at least. I didn't mean to aggravate you this much. That twelve-hour cough medicine stopped working? You should probably take more."

"Stop stalling, duchess."

"Yamcha stopped by before dinner, when you were sleeping. I shouldn't have let him in."

" _Hn."_ Vegeta rubbed his throat. "Let me guess. He reaffirmed his undying love for you. For maximum effect, he also apologized about Aidan's show but said he couldn't find another way to capture your attention. How am I doing?"

"You're pretty good at this, professor."

"I know. It's my job. Now what else did he do? I promise I won't fly off the handle."

"He grabbed… and kissed me. I pushed away and yelled until Alain threw him out – but only after Yamcha saw his gun."

" _That guy packs a gun?_ " Vegeta said with amused interest. "Damn, I'm impressed. Your parents hired Yakuza. Does Alain carry a katana too?"

"Shut up, idiot." She smiled slightly to hold back tears. "I don't think Yamcha meant any harm, I suppose."

Vegeta stared forward as she left his side. Not moving to comfort her took restraint, but he respected her need to cry alone. "Don't beat yourself up for still having feelings for him. I understand."

"That's the problem, Vegeta. Lately, every time he's around I doubt myself more. I wonder if I'm wrong for not giving him another chance. I wonder if our son would be better off."

"Duchess, ask these questions before doing anything else. What can he do to help you feel safe? Can he protect your spirit? Can he listen to and respect your desires? Can he understand what drives you? And since no one is perfect, is he truly capable of remorse when you're hurting?"

He stood as she returned, attempting to stay composed.

"You have no idea what I went through," she said. "My self-control disappeared the night we separated finally. I physically hurt him, stopping short of strangling that woman he fucked in our bed. He was wrong, but I could've been arrested. We both could have lost custody of Trunks. That terrified me, and I never felt so embarrassed. Now, here I am confused. He doesn't…own me."

Vegeta brushed her hair back until she smiled again. "You're right. He doesn't own you. Now you must believe it. Come back to bed with me. We both need more sleep, don't you think?"

Bulma loosened the knot on his robe from behind, sinking her nails into his arm. "Not yet." The tingling pain sent an erotic shock up his spine. The heated air blowing underneath their robes enhanced the sensation. She bit his chest, drawing out a louder grunt until he pinned her body against the balcony's edge. His hand closed around her throat. Pulse skyrocketing, she thrashed and gasped like a caged bird, exciting him more.

"Have… you… _no_ shame, vulgar woman?"

"Switch places with me," she hissed. "I want you here."

Vegeta pressed in harder. "Not until I'm ready. _Not until I'm ready_. How about transcribing my notes for me later, like a good little secretary? That's really all of you uppity women are good for. Being a reporter is a man's job. Accept it, sugar tits."

Bulma writhed as his tongue cascaded down her neck. "Never! _How dare you mock me?_ You wouldn't know perfection if it slapped you in the face!" And with that, breaking one arm free, she cracked him across the cheek.

Smirking, Vegeta rubbed his face. "Thanks for holding back, slugger," he said sarcastically. "Let's keep our bruises and other consensual injuries beneath the chin, okay?" They laughed and kissed and bit each other's lips. "I guess I'll set you free for good effort."

She moved around to straddle his legs, placing a cushion underneath his hip. "Man, you are so hard. Let's see how long we can make this last."

Vegeta's shoulders throbbed they reclined on the balcony. " _Very funny_. People… could be… watching us." He pulled her hair as she pushed down farther, tightening her muscular hold on his dick. She raked her fingers down his back until he groaned.

" _That's right, sergeant_!" she yelled ferociously. "Don't be modest now! Feels _better_ than _good_ , doesn't it?! I'm waiting for an apology!"

Having Bulma ride him like a wild stallion felt incredible, but he would be damned if they didn't climax together. "Never," he whispered, "but please, do continue."

She found him in the kitchen later that morning sipping tea and eating scones. He lowered the cup to search for signs of stress on her face.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," she said, yawning. "Where's Alain?"

Vegeta pushed a plate over to her. "He created some stupid reason to leave. He's a decent guy. There's food on the stove."

"Wow." Bulma felt his forehead. "He must have really impressed you. You rarely compliment anyone from the start. Are you feeling all right?"

" _Hn_. That's not true - and Alain has a gun. Now eat a little before I go."

"I'm not very hungry," she said, laughing. "By the way, did you take your medicines?"

"Yes, and I don't want to discuss that," he said irritably. "We almost crushed every flower pot on the roof having sex. Savor the moment, because it won't happen again."

"Do you really believe that, Vegeta?"

Bulma pinched herself. She just crossed the line that _she drew_ this time. Damn it. "No relationship obligations," but they felt so safe in each other's arms. How could they walk away now?

His dark, penetrating eyes cautioned her. "We agreed on friendship, not regular sex therapy sessions. Stick to your word and confront your fears about Yamcha. I won't let you use me to run away."

"Only if you can stick to your word. You kissed me first yesterday anyway."

Vegeta winked at her. "As I recall, you couldn't keep your hands to yourself at my house. I have to go, duchess. Get some work done."

She followed him, tugging on his arm until they embraced. The hunger of their lips to taste again almost devoured their sensibilities. He held her chin between his fingers, shaking his head. "Last time."

"Right," Bulma said obediently. "Last time." She pushed him backward. He was correct. This wasn't solely about her needs.

He tipped his hat while she opened the door. "I leave for San Francisco in two weeks for Jack's pet project. I'm running a boot camp for young reporters who can't finish their stories. I just hope that my _older_ _colleagues_ complete their work here before I finish there."

She waved her fist at him. "Get out of my house, smart ass – and thanks for the good time."

Neither noticed Yamcha talking to himself in a car parked nearby. "Who is _that_ guy? First I'm terrorized by her butler and now this? What the hell is happening with her? Her uncle hates my guts, but if anyone knows it would be him." He dialed his phone, pressing hard on the screen. "Hey, Charlie, do me a huge favor. You know Jimmy Brief? Yeah, he's there most Saturdays having steak. Pour his drinks heavier tonight. I'll be there later. I want him drunk but talkative. You'll get a big tip. I promise."

* * *

Vegeta picked up Cherry within an hour after leaving Bulma's. They were driving to an oyster festival east of the city, heading to Long Island. He had booked a modest room to stay overnight months ago, having forgotten until the innkeeper called him that week. Then Bulma "happened," and he almost forgot again. The ride had been uneventful until a dull ache settled within his chest. He glanced at the passenger's seat. Maya was wearing a Georgetown sweatshirt and jeans. They both did when he proposed marriage. Her chocolate-brown hair was tied in ponytail.

"You know how to pick the ladies, Sherlock Holmes. I do like this Bulma. She is a feisty one!"

"Why are you here?" he said, gradually feeling more exhausted. "Can't you see I'm driving?"

"Your mind conjured my presence for a reason, Vegeta. The more appropriate question is why do you need me here? You seemed pleased earlier today with your new companion."

"Jealous?"

"I reckon," she said, laughing gracefully. "You _finally_ shagged a woman until your knees buckled. Do you have cider to celebrate?"

"Woman, aren't those dead Britons teaching better slang than this? Shakespeare and Churchill might be better companions for you. Since you've been gone, I have wondered at times about meeting them."

Maya frowned. "You did not fall in love with me because I am British - and those men are not ready to welcome you yet, darling, so stop courting death."

"You're nothing like her, Maya, and who said anything about love?"

"Yes, we are different, but you are walking the same path with her. You were drawn to Bulma long before you met. Whatever you choose, it is time to let me go. You are a man of erudition and abundant strength, with a tremendous capacity to love. Be whole again, my darling, for me."

Cherry had moved into Vegeta's lap, waiting patiently. He looked down until Maya's image faded. Not wanting to be disturbed, he shut off his phone and continued driving. The day was long from over, and he wasn't changing his plans.

Bulma tapped distractedly on her laptop, in bed, later that evening. Talking with Mauricio had been the most excitement she had since Vegeta left that morning. He would be furious if he knew, but she was the boss now.

"Ms. Brief, just give me three weeks and I'll have everything you need."

"That's too damn long, Mauricio. We must go to print with the first half of this story. I can't put this off until almost Thanksgiving. My team is champing at the bit, and you know Blacklands is aware we're investigating. Jack and I are sitting down with the executives soon. They don't need more time to cover their tracks. It's not pretty and I want to keep it that way."

"But you want the huge stuff. I finally have a couple guys – doctors – who are unwilling to take the fall for the big bosses."

"Yeah, and it still doesn't solve what happened to Anna, but fine. Make what you're doing worth my time, and be safe. Bye." She stared at the ceiling with a mix of frustration and reflectiveness.

"Ms. Brief, I know it's late, but may I come in? I brought herbal tea."

Bulma threw a stuffed bear at the entryway. She needed companionship to forget about everything temporarily, and Alain's presence was good enough. "I'm wrapped in my robe, so get in here. I can't sleep anyway."

Looking grim, he sat next to the bed. "I'll get to the point. Let me be a more constant guard for you, at least for a while. You need closer eyes on Trunks too."

Bulma blinked with mild bewilderment. "Is this a joke?"

"I know you reporters think you're invincible, but I believe you're unsafe." He handed her an envelope. "These were delivered earlier. I did some investigating on my own today but came up with nothing."

"Oh my god." Bulma covered her mouth. "Someone photographed Vegeta and me kissing? Look at this note. It says: 'You look cute together. I might just keep these for my own sexual pleasure. I'm sure there will be more.'" She looked up at him. "The bastard is mocking us."

Alain raked his fingers through his hair. "We should tell Mr. Prince together. Where were you?

"At Lacie's, a diner in midtown. Rain poured before I arrived. Whoever did this…"

"Must have tracked you for a long time, yes."

Angry, she threw the pictures on the bed. "Your job now is watching my son and parents closely. Vegeta can handle himself. So can I."

"But I have to disagree…"

"Trust me, I'm not deciding for him. That is what he'll say." She inhaled to speak calmly on the phone. "Prince, you're a fucking prize-winning writer. Stop acting like a prima donna and keep your damn phone on. Call me, okay? It's… important. I'm coming to Brooklyn."

"I'm going with you, and we're taking the SUV," Alain said. "I'll be dressed in ten minutes."

Bulma jumped when the phone chimed. "Oh, it's Uncle Jimmy. God, what trouble has he gotten into now, Alain? He only calls me this late when he's drinking or complaining about someone who wronged him." She almost decided not to answer, but anyone in her family could have been watched.

"Hey, doll! I heard… heard you got a new boyfriend. Damn it, didn't I tell you to leave that one-legged pirate alone?! Am I on speakerphone?"

"Jimmy, you must stop getting drunk alone like this," she said softly. "Where are you?"

"The Palm," he slurred, "and I wasn't alone. I can't drive, but I got something to say. Can you… you come get me?"

Bulma looked at Alain, who nodded. "Okay, honey. I'll be in the SUV."

Jimmy could still walk, blessedly, after they arrived. His shirt dangled over his pants as Alain and the restaurant manager led him into the truck. Squeezing his hulking frame into the back seat proved to be harder than everyone anticipated because of his drunkenness. Bulma sat across from him with her legs and arms crossed. Being angry with him was useless. She had too much on her mind already. Her hand gripped and jiggled a bottle of anti-anxiety pills inside of her purse. She rarely took them – it had been months – but the temptation was there. Vegeta would likely give her a hard time, calling her a mobile medicine chest. Maybe she cared a little too much about his opinion of her.

Jimmy scratched his nose and burped. "I'm sorry. The bartender hooked… hooked me up with some good drinks tonight. He liked my jokes! How could I walk away from that?!"

"Tell me what happened before you pass out. Neither of us have much time."

"You're getting mean in your old age, Bulma."

"Jimmy!"

Trying to look serious, the red-eyed man swayed as he leaned forward. "I saw Yamcha. He came in by… by the time I had stopped caring about anyone sitting near me. Anyway, mister hail-fellow-well-met thought he could trick old Jimmy! Says he stopped… stopped by the big house and saw some guy leaving. I knew it was Prince as soon as he described him. I didn't give away your… your shameful secret."

"Yeah, sure. I'm the _luckiest woman_ in the world, especially with your top-notch protection." She rolled down the window halfway to smoke. The anonymous photographer couldn't be paparazzi, clearly. The pictures would've appeared on the internet or in a gossip tabloid already. Now she had a math problem with several variables, but first she needed family close by as well as Vegeta. She took the pill and lay back to unravel her thoughts. "Where _are_ you, professor? Call me back."

"Are you talking to me, doll? You're whispering. Does your throat hurt?"

"Does it look I'm talking to you, Jimmy? I'm not staring in your direction."

"Well, I don't know," he said, looking depressed. "You've been secretive for a while. We haven't had… breakfast… or dinner together in weeks. I miss you. You're fun to talk with when you're not arguing."

Feeling emotional, she wiped her eyes and kissed his hand. "You're good at pulling my heartstrings, old man. I haven't forgotten about you. Thanks for protecting my privacy. We can discuss Prince when you're sober, and rest assured that he's not my boyfriend. Alain will take you inside. Someone will check on you throughout the night."

"Aw, please don't cry, Bulma. I hate it when you do that. I should have punched Yamcha instead. Maybe tomorrow?"

She smiled. "I just have a lot on my mind, handsome. You going to jail would not help. Now get of my car. I love you, uncle."

"Bye, niece. Don't worry about me."

Bulma covered her face, leaning on her knees, until the pill calmed her angst. When Vegeta finally returned the call, her reflexes had been wrestled into calming obedience.

"Where are you, Prince? Are you okay?"

"I'm not in Brooklyn," he said sleepily. "What's wrong?"

"We were followed, and it might be different this time." His silence made her wonder if the call disconnected. "Vegeta?"

"I heard you, Bulma. I have to get on the road. I'll be there in about an hour."


	11. Mood Swings

Vegeta's mind had entered work mode. Like Bulma, he considered a range of possibilities. He would try to restrain the excesses of his concern, though, to avoid reckless, anger-fueled reactions. The goal was protection, which included Bulma and her loved ones. Both had faced dangerous situations throughout their careers, but this was uniquely personal.

"Yael, I apologize for calling this late, but I have favor to ask."

"Sure, Mr. Prince. Whatever you need. Are you all right?"

"I am well. Go upstairs and wait for Ms. Brief, check the windows, and keep the doors locked. She'll be in an SUV. I'm on my way there."

"Well it is a nice night, even though it's late," Yael said happily. "I'll wait on the porch with the heaters on."

Slapping the steering wheel, Vegeta felt like a fretful, ill-tempered parent. "Scheisse! What part of 'keep the doors locked' did you miss? Do what I asked before I evict you."

"Okay, Mr. Prince. You don't have to curse. Here's a different question…"

"Here's an answer," Vegeta interrupted. "No more questions until I arrive. Bye."

Cherry scurried toward the porch as soon as Alain opened the front door. Bulma and Yael sat patiently listening to Vegeta's "this is bullshit" procession to the library. His crutch clapped on the floor like a marching drum.

He looked at Yael. "First question: Did someone deliver a package?"

"Yes. I put it in here after returning from synagogue. Let me open it."

"No," he replied, sitting down. "I'll do it."

Bulma moved closer while he examined the papers. "What is it?"

Vegeta swallowed and exhaled. "It's… a large copy of my wife's obituary, with red pen scrawled across her face. The note says, 'Too bad you couldn't save her. Such a handsome woman, she was. You can't win them all, Marine.'"

Looking pained, Yael stood. "Who would do something so terrible?" she said angrily. "I cannot believe this."

Bulma touched the young woman's arm. "Just give him a minute. He'll be fine."

Vegeta rested his hands and chin on his crutch. "Yael, you will sleep in the guest bedroom up here for now. I'll have the security checked later today. Leave the three us alone for a few. I'll explain more when we're done." He hated this part the most, although she didn't seem afraid. She smiled, full of life, as she typically did.

"A righteous man falls down seven times and gets up, Mr. Prince. My rabbi discussed this earlier. Now I have put scripture to good use."

Bulma wanted to hug her. Some people would've been frightened or angered immediately, but Yael was as tough as saddle leather. Vegeta's stern commands never offended her because, unless he was feeling unwell, entertainment often followed.

"What happens after eight?" he said, teasing her. "Ask your rabbi, and we'll discuss the finer points later. Now go."

Bulma handed her package to him. "I'm sorry, Vegeta."

"Sorry for what?" he said, inspecting its contents. "I won't go to the police with mine. You, however, must notify them because your message is more explicit."

Bulma wandered around the room. "Okay, guys. I'm calmer. Technically, my message _might be_ considered aggravated harassment under New York law, but there's no reason to tell the police yet because no pattern has been established. This could be a one-time incident. They would likely say wait and see. Alain, for now, as I said earlier, please tighten security protocols for my family."

"I must disagree with this choice," Alain replied. "Your note was far from vague or else we wouldn't be here. You should at least tell someone, even if you can't file a police report yet. You both know enough NYPD officers to staff a 'Law and Order' episode, I assume."

Bulma looked over at Vegeta, who sat with his eyes closed. He couldn't shake the "Too bad you couldn't save her" line. Was he being challenged to fight? Was Bulma being used as bait? She could be a raging, daring bull of a woman, which he had come to appreciate fully, but the stakes were higher. Her pride would undoubtedly be problematic.

"They're both poison pen letters," he said, massaging his chin. "It's hard to believe they're unrelated. Alain, would you leave us?"

"Of course, sir."

"Just call me Vegeta. I'm sure I'll see more of you. Leave the 'sir' honorific for special occasions."

Bulma faced him when the door shut. "It could be anyone."

"Yes, duchess. It could be, and but I don't think your ex-husband is a candidate, and I highly doubt Blacklands would do this. Showing us kissing once isn't the best use of their resources. The person who sent these messages has interacted with one or both of us closely, is vengeful, and sees you as a stronger target - because stalkers almost always harass women more aggressively."

She sat beside him, picking up his hand. "Hey, are you having this conversation with yourself or me? Maybe there's more than one involved - but you think Aidan is the culprit. It's time to come clean, so talk with me. We're in this together."

"If it is Aidan, then yes, I'm responsible. Share your suspicions with the police. In fact, I'll go myself. I'm… sorry. "

Bulma rolled her eyes. "That is a terrible idea, so stop being a dramatic, gloomy martyr. The culprit could still be someone else. Whatever happens, detectives would have to unravel a web of interactions between the three of us, including why Aidan never reported your, uh, 'argument.' If he's targeting me, considering that I did nothing to him, I won't let this pass. I'm probably not his first female victim."

"I have good reason to believe that you're not," Vegeta said. "I believe Aidan has sexually harassed women for years and gotten away with it because his company cleans up the messes. But let's discuss that later. Alain was right about you."

Bulma shook her head. "You won't tie my hands, professor, and neither will this anonymous person – if this problem even continues, which it might not. I will live my life and do my damn job. Your note was just as horrible, and I will lie like a thief and say I received nothing if you talk to the cops. It will not help."

Vegeta bristled. "Then you're being selfish. You have a son to consider."

"Think about it this way. I'm certain that my parents endured many threats from crackpots when I grew up. Ask them. They didn't cage me. Trunks mustn't feel completely jailed either, and we have more than enough protection. Did you forget than I'm wealthy? I also rarely hear about male reporters with kids catching hell."

Vegeta let go of her hand. "Can you stop with the self-righteous feminism for one day?! You know damn well this is different!"

Fists clenched, Bulma moved to the opposite side of room. "You know what, Vegeta? _Deal with it, and don't you dare use my son against me!_ Are you leaving _your home_? No! Are you having protection follow you? No! I'm not in a war zone facing down terrorists, and I get emotional at times, but this problem of all things _won't_ _stop me_ \- and don't you forget it!"

"Why must everything be a challenge, you pig-headed woman?! Why? Can't some decisions be simple and reasonable? This is asinine, immature behavior."

"Oh, so you're saying I'm a silly child now?!" Bulma smacked her forehead. "This is for both of us, so try pulling that massive stick out of your tight ass before smugly judging me! You swing your intellect around like a nightstick when you don't get your way sometimes, and…"

Vegeta threw his reading glasses aside. " _And you know what, duchess_? This, right here, is exactly why we can't be together - sexually or otherwise."

"Yes, I know," she said, fingering through a book. "You've made your regret about sharing a bed with me abundantly clear."

"Are you two okay?" Yael asked, hurrying into the room. "Why are you arguing?"

Alain's scolding eyes broke the tension between Bulma and Vegeta, who had been glaring furiously at each other. "There's _no argument_ here, my dear. They are merely sharing concerns…energetically. Now then, everyone, shall we discuss next steps?"

Yael bent down in front of Vegeta. "Okay, it's my turn. I'm not some naïve fool. You and Ms. Brief are worried about each other's welfare, and I'm guessing that you might want me to leave for a while, too." She paused, reducing her voice into a soft growl. " _No way in hell. You got that_?"

Vegeta picked up his crutch, waving his arm theatrically. "Oh, the impetuous ones! Why do they never listen? When will they ever learn?" Bulma, ever the defiant provocateur, curtsied like Victorian aristocracy as he passed by.

"This isn't a Shakespearean tragedy," Yael said, walking beside him. "Why would I leave a cranky mensch like you? You shouldn't…be alone, _aba_."

Surprised, Vegeta looked up at her. "Nonsense. I'm too young to be called 'papa,' and you're certifiably crazy to adopt me as yours and declare it openly."

"Oh, you're definitely old enough," she said, kissing his cheek. "Let's talk one-on-one at breakfast. I will sleep peacefully until then. Please try to do the same. Bye, everyone."

Vegeta nudged Yael before she pranced out. "Stop being a nuisance with your annoying cheeriness."

"Well, I am comforted that Prince has two formidable bodyguards," Bulma said, taking Alain's arm in hers. "Cherry is always prepared for duty."

Alain wasn't smiling. "I want you both to understand something. I dislike being kept in the dark, but I will respect your wishes about not involving the police yet – and I'll do my best to support you if, god forbid, something else happens, because you're good people. However, think long and hard about what you're hiding and whether it's worth the trouble. Ms. Brief, I'll be waiting in the car when you're ready. Take your time."

Alone again, Bulma gave Vegeta her hand. "That was a tough fight we just had."

He shrugged. "Yeah, and neither of us should apologize because it will probably happen again, and we'll forgive each other. No reason say it repeatedly. Also, I don't regret sleeping with you."

"We will be okay, Prince. We're not even big-time celebrities. They're stalked worse. It's our first time! This is small potatoes. We just got some weird letters, and your face was blurred in those awful pictures anyway. My hair looked terrible, too."

"You have more notoriety than I – and your jokes are awful."

Vegeta released her hand to move aside. She picked it up again, kissing it until he began to stroke her face. The floor creaked, breaking the silence as their lips joined. Their tongues slipped over each like a circus carousel, around and around until their rotations intensified. Bulma's thumbs caressed his cheeks soothingly as their kissing plunged deeper. Her hips gyrated against his growing hardness as their bodies pressed against the wall. His hand's swift pivot underneath her panties made her head bounce. His fingers stroked the soft exterior of her clit until she throbbed from craving all of him once again. They both pulled away from their kissing, breathing heavily, with their foreheads pressed together.

Bulma stumbled backward as her shoe slipped off. "God, I hate it when you're right, professor. This, right here, is why we can't be together. My shoes are too expensive to scuff." She staggered to the door, throwing it open.

Nodding, Vegeta wiped his mouth. "Last time."

There was no way in hell he could leave the city now.

* * *

Morning headaches were the worst, and Vegeta had one. Bulma and Alain got home safely earlier, but now she had Trunks to deal with. She would be fine for a while, he thought, but they couldn't rely on themselves to solve their own cases. That required a private investigator. Alain or Bulma's parents were his best shot at making that happen _for her_. However upsetting it might be for others in his life to accept, he still didn't care whether he lived or died. He'd spent his entire life trying to make something of himself, to be a decent and conscientious man, and now what? Was Aidan causing trouble because of him - or worse, had his past caught up with him? He enjoyed learning and working, but his mind would drift, as it did then, to not "being" anymore. Reflecting more on his pleasurable moments with Bulma worsened his mood. He was tired, and one day he might choose to end that depressive mental exhaustion permanently, on his own terms – but not now. An important story went unfinished, and the woman he was falling in love with had to complete it. She also needed to protect herself, with his help.

Cherry stepped on his foot, holding her leash, as he dragged himself from bed to take aspirin and put on a jogging suit.

"Just give me a few minutes, you impatient little woman."

Yael had to move out to stay safe. His decision was non-negotiable, and he would tell her after walking Cherry outside. Sal and Berta would take her in without question. He would pay some expenses if they allowed him to.

Then, to his annoyance, the home phone rang.

"Speak _now_."

"Hey, Spike. When did you stop saying hello? That's bad manners, you know."

Vegeta shoulders dropped. "How in _the hell_ did you get this number? It's unlisted."

"Baby boy, you're not the only one who can investigate – and remember, I taught you much of what you know."

Vegeta hung up. "I must still be asleep. This is not happening." He bit his hand. "Nope, I'm awake. Damn."

Cherry bolted from the room barking when the doorbell rang, while Vegeta examined video of the porch. The short, thin man outside was indeed his father.

"I know you're watching me, Spike. I'm not leaving until you open the door. It's as cold as a limp dick out here."

"Drop dead, Nappa."

"Nice intercom system you got there, son! You must be rolling in cash – and I'm dying, so you'll get your wish soon."

"If you're telling the truth, then I'm delighted," Vegeta replied coldly. "I'm not paying for your casket, either. Go away." Cherry was ready to pee on the floor, which angered him more. "You're trespassing, and I will call the cops."

"Oh, give it a rest, Vegeta. I haven't seen you in at least twenty-five years. Do you really think I came all the way here to piss you off? You're still talking with me, which means you're curious. Come on. Please, open the door."

Vegeta had been leaning on the door already. "I may regret this, but it could be worse. We're taking a walk, you old fart."

His father stepped back, looking slightly startled by his son's physical condition. "Those… muscles look great on you for the most part, but the way you're holding that crutch tells me…"

"It tells you nothing. Trust me, I can kick your ass into next year."

Nappa smiled and relit his cigar. "Ah, there's my Spike! All piss and vinegar like you was as a kid. What's up with the girlie dog, though? Are you gay or something like that now?"

Vegeta felt his teeth grind. When he was a kid, his father nicknamed him "Spike" because his thick hair spiked wildly after bad haircuts.

"Stop insulting men who are far manlier than you'll ever be, Nappa. So you're really dying, huh? You have lost weight."

"Yeah. Pancreatic cancer."

Vegeta set Cherry free to run in the park across the street. "You've seen me now. Go home and die peacefully."

Nappa blew smoke in the air, peering at the sky. "Spike, look, I been out of jail for a while. I have a girlfriend who cares for me now, and I am ready to die, but I… had a nightmare about you. I had accepted never seeing you again until this. It scared me something terrible. What are doing to yourself?"

Vegeta laughed scornfully. The fury in his eyes matched the contempt in his voice. "A nightmare, you say? _I lived a fucking nightmare with you_. You beat the hell out of me and forced me to deliver drugs before I started middle school - and I still managed to avoid jail time and leave home with a scholarship. The fact that you're standing here without a broken nose is a testament to _my willpower_. Your guilt means nothing to me."

"I'm not asking for forgiveness because I don't deserve it," Nappa said quietly. "I just want you to listen…"

"No! Enough listening! You're speaking in circles. Just go away, dad. I will accept _that_ apology."

"Fine," Nappa said, wiping his eyes. "I am sorry. I don't know what's happening, but all I wanted to say is save yourself. Don't let whatever it is take you down. You done really good, kid – really good."

Vegeta turned to walk away. "Don't worry. I won't. Happy now?"

"You may not believe it, but I do love you. I didn't know how good I had it. Bye, son."

"I wish I could believe it." Vegeta didn't look back. He couldn't. Hearing his father sobbing and brokenhearted was enough.

The encounter didn't help his mood at work, as well as Yael's sadness over moving out. He and Bulma played it cool with Jack about their predicament. Almost two weeks has passed without incident, but they remained cautious.

Jack was seriously rethinking his open-door policy. It was Thursday, and people had been shuffling through all day - and now Vegeta. Jack anticipated a big request, which he probably would reject.

"I need to stay in town for a while."

"For what, Prince? Did you cough up another project despite my orders not to? You have been quieter than normal, and so has duchess. What are you up to?"

Sidestepping the questions, Vegeta sat down. "I see you're in a pleasant mood today. Bring those two San Francisco reporters here instead to meet with me – and you. They'll love it."

Jack looked under his desk. "With what money? I can't find any down here, and I don't have a safe deposit box with gold bullion inside. There's no room in my budget for reporters seeking a free New York vacation."

Vegeta tossed a pen at him. "This is a multi-billion dollar company. You can find the money."

Jack ripped open a pack of cigarettes. "Fine then. I'll fly them here since I'm a generous soul, but you are adding to the list of favors you owe me for. Beyond that, how are you holding up with... well, _everything_ these past few weeks?"

"You're really asking me that, Jackson? Christ, man. You demoted me from a huge project that I led for almost a year. I should give you both middle fingers and say 'fuck you' on general principle."

Jack grinned. "Fabulous! You have made peace with yourself. Bulma is in the war room. She may have lost files."

Vegeta leaned forward. "That's insane, and I find that hard to believe. She's gnawed through four boxes of pencils like a rabid squirrel since I returned to the office. That's usually means she's working well."

Jack pointed at the door. "You might be able to help her piece together some stuff. I need you to run an errand at the courthouse sometime between now and tomorrow, so don't get comfortable. Now get out of my face. I need time to think."

A mailroom attendant handed Jack a package after Vegeta exited. It had no return address. He had a cigarette to smoke, so he dropped it on his desk and left.

* * *

Bulma typed and deleted multiple sentences and paragraphs. Four hours of this repetition suppressed her desire to write more, so she played darts instead. On instinct, Vegeta ducked after hearing a smack on the wall.

"Uh, having some trouble, duchess? You almost cracked my skull with that dart."

"Why are you here, Vegeta? Jack banished you to Siberia, and now you've ruined my game."

"He said you lost files - a lie - which means he wants me to help."

Visibly annoyed, Bulma scratched the computer mousepad and threw another dart. Vegeta wanted to jump out of his skin.

"Will you stop with the noise? It's killing me over here. Do you want help or not?

"I'm just tired," she said, pouting.

He leaned over her shoulder. "You look like it, you petulant brat. Let me see the screen."

"Are you sure you want to stand? I can lower the computer desk."

He put his reading glasses on. "I'll tell you when I'm feeling faint, mommy. Now move." His mouth bent sideways as he scrolled through multiple paragraphs. "What the hell? Did you ignore everything we discussed weeks ago with Jack? This is hot garbage. Why do these parts look like bad geometry?"

"I'm rewriting them."

"No, Bulma, you're digging a grave, and I've had enough. Our team has toiled eight months - two months too long because of the lawyers. Everyone else must return normal duties, which none completely gave up while working with us."

"Okay, stop lecturing, professor," she said, wiping her forehead. " _My team_ meets again on Monday. Remember, you're officially banished from leadership.

"Consider me a consultant then. Make a new pot of coffee because we're rewriting together."

"I don't want any more coffee, Vegeta."

He noticed circles around her eyes. "That's surprising. Are you all right? Have you eaten?"

"Eh, had a couple of bagels this morning."

"That's really unlike you." He looked at his watch. "It's 4 p.m., and we're not leaving until at least 11 tonight. I'm ordering Chinese food, and you'll eat with no objections. You got it?"

"Fine."

They sat down together to address the first uncomfortable situation.

"Well, duchess, we've made through two weeks since the packages came. So far, so good. You holding up well?"

"The investigator hasn't uncovered anything," Bulma said. "Aidan hasn't anchored his show since Yamcha and I were on that night. He also hasn't left town, but there's no evidence that he's acting strangely. The weird part is I'm feeling uncomfortable about monitoring him now - almost like we're reverse stalking him. How are things with you?"

Vegeta thought about his father. "No problems on my end yet. Regarding Aidan, get over that discomfort. Tell you what, let's have Trunks hang with us tonight. He can do homework and keep us from killing each other while we edit."

"My son can't get a pass to come down here over everyone else's kids."

"He won't. Get Jack's permission, along with Elaine's. If they say no, then fine. Besides, we're working on the story, not showing the kid the Holy Grail."

Trunks arrived an hour later. Bulma smiled, knowing her son was thrilled. Back straightened, he greeted Vegeta seriously, as if they would design the next space station together.

"This room has cool tech stuff, but it also looks like a tornado attacked it. Mom, what did you do?"

"One more word, Trunks Brief, and you're eating burnt coffee grounds tonight."

He dropped his backpack on the floor. "Whatever. I got calculus to do. Carry on, you two."

After a while, Trunks observed the creative-writing artistry between the two adults. One would take a story section and debate its merits, while the other would type and reshape the presentation. Sometimes Vegeta paced, touching his chin and wagging his finger with each new thought. Bulma's eyes darted like dragonflies. The boy figured they would become a couple soon enough. Sal was right.

When the time came for dinner only Bulma picked at her food, while the other two gorged themselves like famished lions. Vegeta sensed that Trunks wanted to question her, so he remained quiet. He already knew the answer anyway. She had been rheumy-eyed and sniffing since he arrived, and her voice was scratchy. She had also been sneezing intermittently.

This would be fun.

"Mom, don't you like the food? Are you okay?"

Bulma sneezed. "Oh yes, honey," she said, wiping her nose. "I'm fine. The soup was good. The rest is too heavy for my appetite today. I'll probably eat leftovers tomorrow. Let's finish up. I have another long day tomorrow, and we both need some sleep. I'm more tired than I thought. I'm glad you joined us tonight, though."

"Yeah, I like watching you work together. It's cool."

"I drove today, so let me bring you home," Vegeta said. "Trunks, your mother and I need to talk privately for a few."

"Got it. I'll meet you at the driving cart, guys."

Turning toward Bulma, Vegeta snickered. "So, uh, you know you're sick, right?"

"I am not," she said dismissively. "You sent my son away for this?"

"Bulma, by this time tomorrow, you will be a snotty, sniffling, achy mess like I was a few weeks ago. We should stop by Duane Reade for cold medicine tonight."

"Just shut up and take us home, will you?"

"Okay. Don't say I didn't try to help. We did good work tonight, so I'm leaving the rest to you. You _will_ publish next week, got it?"

Bulma sniffled. "Yes, sergeant."

When they arrived at the house, Vegeta nudged Trunks before leaving the car. "Kid, your mom is sick. You got medicine in the mansion somewhere?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you know what to do. She wants to be at work tomorrow."

Trunks saluted him. "Right."

Bulma walked to the passenger window. "What are you whispering about?"

"Nothing big, mom. Let's go!"

Vegeta left the car to watch them approach the front door. He wasn't close enough before the two were blocked.

"Hey, babe. What's going on? Did you see 'Access Gotham' tonight?"

Startled, Bulma stepped back. "Yamcha, what are you doing here? It's late. Oh, god. You're drunk, aren't you?"

He staggered forward. "Yeah, well, time doesn't seem... problem.. problematic for you or the new boyfriend."

Embarrassed and hurt, Trunks looked down. "Dad, stop it. Please. Just go home."

"What, boy? You don't find me fun anymore? You shopping for a new dad?"

Vegeta moved behind Bulma and Trunks. "Look, I'm getting them home safely. That's all."

"Hey there, fella!" Yamcha waved at him. "Did you get that injury playing minor-league baseball or something?"

Bulma couldn't take it anymore. " _That's enough_! I'm not feeling well tonight. Just let us get by."

Alain was outside by this time. His and Vegeta's eyes calculated risks from every side. Both were trained sharpshooters, and both hoped this situation could be defused without anyone getting hurt.


	12. Danger From All Sides

**Summary: Bulma and Vegeta are faced with more tests of will that could make or break them.**

* * *

 _I can't pass out. Not now._

Sweat beads had emerged on Bulma's forehead, and she was nauseated. However, she didn't want Vegeta to squeeze between her and Trunks, fearing that Yamcha would throw a punch at him. She knew the guys wanted to toss her ex-husband on the ground, naturally, because they didn't know what the drunk, despondent man would do next. She didn't want that. Instead, she gripped Vegeta's arm as he crept forward, signaling that he shouldn't move farther.

"Yamcha," she said softly, "I know you're upset, but you can't tear yourself apart like this. I won't let you. I know you can do better. You're pushing us away with this behavior."

He dropped his alcohol flask on the ground. "Bulma, not once have you really tried to hear me out. I don't want to hurt you."

"Well, you are hurting me – and your son."

"Do you still love me?"

She moved her hand to her stomach. "A part of me does, I guess, but… but…" Having trouble finishing her words, she swallowed and closed her eyes. "I need some air."

Worried, Trunks took her hand. "Mom, don't talk anymore."

Feeling lightheaded, she pushed her son closer to Vegeta and staggered to a tree to vomit.

"Mom!"

Realizing how sick she was, Yamcha snapped out of his self-pity momentarily. "We need to get her inside the house!"

Alain used the opportunity to grab him from behind, forcing him onto his knees, while Vegeta and Trunks attended to Bulma. She was dry-heaving now, her stomach having emptied what little she ate before.

"We will help her, Mr. Wolf," Alain said evenly, "but you have upset everyone enough. I don't enjoy doing this. For your son's sake, listen to what his mother says. The police are coming soon."

Vegeta had been holding Bulma's hair back until she stopped throwing up. "Stay with us, honey. Can you stand up straight now?"

She nodded. "I can."

Luckily, Trunks was tall enough for her to lean on his shoulder. Vegeta draped her other arm around his. She worried more than she did earlier about being dead weight.

"Vegeta, are you sure you can…"

"Quiet, duchess. I won't fall over. I didn't earlier. We'll just be slower."

Not making a sound, Bulma's mother pushed the door open. Alain asked her to stay back when the commotion started, which was almost unbearable for the assertive woman. Her long white hair was tied into a neat bun. Looking younger than her 75 years, she wore a black turtleneck shirt, cropped trousers, and ballet flats – crisp and cultured. Vegeta sensed her close examination of him.

"Bring her into the sitting room."

"Mother, I'm okay."

"Three people are standing here who disagree," Bunny said. "Be silent while I examine you – and, Mr. Prince, have a seat please."

Vegeta hadn't expected her to recognize him that fast. He also didn't recall Bulma telling Bunny that they would work late. Having Trunks visit the war room was a surprise.

"Ma'am, maybe I should check on Alain," he said.

Bunny peered over the top of her glasses. "Very well, although it appears he has successfully neutralized the…threat."

"Mother, _stop it_."

"Grandma is right," Trunks said angrily. "You said you were sick, and dad totally ignored it at first. He acted threatening."

"Baby…"

"Bulma, you're running a fever," Bunny interrupted. "I believe you have a stomach flu and, from the sound of you, have another cold. Let's get you hydrated and into bed. You'll be down for a while, I suspect. It's absurd that your father's company _created_ a vaccine to avoid stomach flu for adults that you wouldn't take. It's not that hard."

"Can we do this later, mother?" Bulma replied wearily. "I am going to be sick again."

"Uh, yes," Bunny said with a gentle smile. "Of course, sweetheart. I apologize. I'll return shortly. Trunks, come with me please."

Vegeta propped a pillow underneath Bulma's head. "That woman is a real piece of work. I like her."

"Of course you would - just to spite me. Thank you for helping us. I'm so sorry you were dragged into this drama. I hope I didn't pass another plague back to you either."

Vegeta handed her a box of tissues and stood. "You haven't. Unlike you, I took the vaccine. You're in better hands now than mine, and Yamcha's problems aren't yours to solve. He is harassing you, and it's time to end it. We're both under enough stress. Maybe being arrested will cool him off. I'm sure your parents won't let this incident go, especially now. Get some rest."

Looking displeased, Bunny stood at the front door sipping water. "Mr. Prince, my grandson has returned outside, disobeying my orders. I need to take care of my daughter. Convince Trunks that it is in his best interest to return. My patience has been depleted by this unnecessary spectacle that Yamcha created."

"Uh, yes, ma'am."

Bunny winked. "You are polite. I like that, and I see it's genuine, but don't be too stiff around me. I curse like a sailor too when I'm boiling angry. On the other hand, my daughter could hold back more, but that's just who she is."

"We just met," Vegeta said, looking amused. "Your opinion of me may change. It has with others."

The police hadn't arrived yet, which bothered him. Leaving Yamcha there, on his knees, was a humiliation that would leave an unforgettable imprint on father and son. Alain had asked the boy to depart, but Trunks was determined to voice his frustration. The boy was more articulate and self-possessed that others realized at times.

He walked in front, crossing his arms. "Dad, look at me. You _will_ show me the respect mom didn't get tonight. I told her I didn't want you back together a long time ago. She defends you and wants us to have a good relationship, but how can I do that when you do stuff like this? She is sicker now, in part, because you upset her."

Yamcha kept his head down. "I'm sorry, son."

"Not good enough, dad. Everything lately has been about what you want. Sometimes I feel more like property than your son. Do you know what else I'm good at besides baseball? Even your mother knows more. I like Mr. Prince because he's curious about me and is smart and funny. He talks with me like I'm a normal, interesting kid – which I am. Maybe you could try doing more of that. Wanting mom to be with you again shouldn't come with it. Mr. Prince isn't mom's boyfriend either, but he showed me tonight how much he cares for her. If you do anything to hurt him – and I mean anything - consider our relationship over."

"Give your dad time to think now," Vegeta said, looking Yamcha in the eye. "You've said your piece. Your grandmother could use help with your mother."

Trunks threw a tree branch on the ground."Are you coming too?"

"No, Trunks. Your mother should rest. We can talk anytime."

Yamcha didn't protest when the police finally arrived. He looked up before they put him in the car.

"Do you have kids?"

"I don't," Vegeta said.

"Sounds like you might be a good father."

Alain grabbed Vegeta's shoulder as the cops departed. "Well, that's one thing he got right."

* * *

Bulma had spent the last two days in bed terribly sick, with no desire to talk or work. The cold was bad enough, but the stomach flu was worse. She didn't have the energy to think about Yamcha's behavior either. It was Sunday and she had to prepare for the following day's meeting. She had worked before while ill whenever big deadlines loomed.

She left home early without telling anyone except for Alain, who insisted on driving her. He had given up trying to convince her to stay. She had to learn a lesson. Her sneezing and coughing echoed from the moment she entered Capsule, but she didn't care. Sitting at her desk would've drawn nosy weekend reporters, so she went straight to the war room. It was stocked with enough Gatorade to hydrate an Olympic track-and-field team. She didn't faint, but she puked again, unfortunately. Having a bathroom there made it convenient at least, she thought.

Jack and Vegeta had been enjoying brunch nearby when they both received emails from a weekend editor: _Duchess Typhoid Mary is around here somewhere, fellas. Come get her. I'm no nursemaid. - Sincerely, Beatrice._

Jack was exasperated. "Damn it. I told her to stay home. She'll infect the entire office like a tiger mosquito."

"At least we're done eating," Vegeta said, dropping his napkin.

"Yeah. I want you to smoke your Cuban cigar with me while I try one I received as a gift. Let's do that later this week, maybe with the San Francisco guys."

They found Bulma sleeping swaddled in a blanket. Jack shook her gently. "Come on, honey. You're going home."

"Guys, I'm napping," she said with her eyes closed. "I am allowed a break." She snatched a tissue to muffle her coughing. "Thanks for your concern, really. Go away."

Jack and Vegeta looked at each other. Then they lifted her from both sides.

"Hey! Let go of me!"

"Jack, hold on while I get her things," Vegeta said. "She doesn't have much."

"Hello, I'm standing right here," Bulma said, pointing at herself sluggishly. "You can talk to me like an adult, professor."

Vegeta dropped her bag. "Okay then. We'll leave you here if you didn't throw up. What's the answer?" Bulma turned her back on him and grunted.

After arriving home, Bunny received her with the severity of a private school headmistress – lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

"No more. _No more_. Do you understand, daughter?"

"Yes, mother. I'm sorry."

" _Save your apologies_ for Jackson and Mr. Prince and Trunks – and Alain. Our doctor will arrive soon. Mr. Prince, would you escort Bulma to her bedroom please? I believe you know… where it is."

"Yes, ma'am."

Bulma blushed. She and Bunny hadn't discussed that part yet. "Mom, it's okay. Bringing me home with Jack is enough."

Bunny waved her hand, silencing the protest. "It is my wish. Mr. Prince is respecting it. _Be grateful_."

Vegeta finally laughed once they entered her bedroom. "Life must have been fun when you were a teenager."

Bulma pinched his shoulder playfully. "We're very close now, actually. Her toughness is hard-earned. I admitted to her that I'm struggling with personal issues, but we haven't discussed the pictures or the private investigator yet. She and my sister are trying to give me space, but it's hard for them. Dad acts differently with me, but he's in Brazil until Thanksgiving."

"Karen, Derek, and I polished the final story draft Friday and Saturday, Bulma. They had to make an exception for me to finish it, but I won't be anywhere near Monday's meeting, which they will lead."

Bulma moved up on the bed. "Wait. What?"

"Read it after seeing your doctor. You're fairly sick. It would be wise to follow your own advice, don't you think?"

Bulma wiped her nose. "You know, I wiped your snotty face when you were drugged out of your mind on my sleeping pills."

Vegeta scratched his chin. "I wondered later what that strange feeling was. At least you didn't take pictures – and you are a terrible patient, by the way. Bye!"

He chuckled to himself – a much-needed stress reliever – as he approached the front entrance. Bunny stopped him.

"You know, Mr. Prince, I did intelligence work for the government until I married and had children. One learns a lot about the merits and drawbacks of deception. For two people with vast professional experience, you and my daughter have been awful at it. Either tell me what you know _soon,_ or do a better job of managing the situation. Also, you will join my family for the Thanksgiving holiday."

Vegeta held his hands up. "That's a little much, Mrs. Brief. I don't do holidays."

"Holidays are not 'done,' young man. They are observed or celebrated. Come eat and observe. Celebrating is optional. You may leave now. Don't ignore my other request either."

Scratching his head, Vegeta re-entered his car. Again, Bunny played him like a prized violin. His phone's screen suddenly flashed a long list of zeros, interrupting his musing. He cracked his knuckles before answering. Round three.

"Talk - now."

The person spoke through a voice scrambler. "Aw. Did you think I wouldn't bother you anymore, Vegeta? I am a jealous and determined woman. Oh, I know! Maybe you should trace this call to make our foreplay more exciting."

"I am recording you, and I still think you're a man."

"You're barking up the wrong tree on that one, smarty pants. Also, I have no desire to harm the Brief family or your unfortunate ex-convict father. It's more fun teasing you and the duchess without distractions."

"Your teasing leaves much to be desired, asshole."

The caller began to laugh. "Maybe it's time to call the police then. You'll discover who I am long before they do, I believe. Also, I called your dad since I am concerned about your well-being. I said we were old friends from college."

Vegeta gripped the steering wheel. " _Leave my father_ _alone_. He's dying."

"Perhaps you should be kinder to him then, _Spike_. Oh, and be very careful with that pain medicine. It must feel great having it – maybe a little too much, hmm? Get some help before you end up in a wheelchair or a drug-addiction treatment center. Bulma might find you less sexually appealing if you don't. You have had sex, right? Enjoy it while it lasts, playboy."

Vegeta hung up in a blind rage. Worse, another pain episode had begun, but his pills were missing from the car. He had been using more than his doctors prescribed "to take the edge off" lately – the mentally stressful edge – and it felt good. Too good.

Taking a deep breath, he covered his face.

"They won't fuck with my head like this. I can't be sloppy anymore."

* * *

 ** _Disheartened – A Story Series_**

 _Produced by the Capsule Revelation Team: reporters Bulma Brief, Joy Arnold, Michael Love, Kedrick Johnson; intern Guadalupe Morales; health and science business editor Karen Jackson; financial crimes editor Derek Lazlo; and investigative projects editor Vegeta Prince. Part one was written by Brief._

Over several months, Anna White, an operating room nurse at Rosewood Medical Center in South Orange, New Jersey, became concerned with the volume of patients operated on by two surgeons, Elgin Sanders and Kimberly Yoon. In particular, Anna and some co-workers noticed the rapid pace of expensive, highly profitable heart procedures.

Rosewood had been a big, longtime moneymaker for its owner, Blacklands Health Corporation. Curious about patient numbers at other profitable medical centers, Anna visited two others in New York and New Jersey, talking with other nurses casually about "churn," their nickname for the speed that patients undergoing certain surgical procedures were admitted and released, including for outpatient procedures. What they said disturbed her. She began to read more patients' charts at Rosewood, identified patterns, and quietly followed up with families when she could. She actively questioned other medical staff about the need for specific procedures, which sometimes cost as much as 400% more than what other major New Jersey hospitals charged.

"Discovering these things shook my faith," Anna said, crying. "There were patterns. We're supposed to support patients. Many are scared and desperately want to trust us. I'm convinced several people were left injured permanently and others died. Hear me on this. That's murder. People must be held responsible - but not just at the bottom."

The 29-year-old mother of two was found dead in the Passaic River earlier this year. Her older brother Nigel, a former pediatric neurosurgeon at Rosewood, called her a "brave, radiant light" who never tired of learning. At this writing, events surrounding her death remain unclear. Anna's mother, who knew about her daughter's secret activities, says it was murder, not suicide. Within the last month, when contacted by reporters, police investigators said the case would remain open.

Meanwhile, the two Rosewood doctors were taking full advantage of the money they made, living lavishly and flaunting it. Some patients even sang their praises for saving their lives, and Blacklands and its top executives raked in profits. Now, an FBI affidavit in federal court alleges that as many as 40% of all heart surgeries and tests the doctors performed at Rosewood were unnecessary by acceptable medical principles, and that an estimated 20% were performed on patients with no serious heart issues. For almost a year, the Revelation Team investigated a much larger network of questionable activities at Blacklands' hospitals and the corporate office – and much more.

(Subscription required to see the rest of this story.)

* * *

The story published on Wednesday as planned. The team sent flowers to Bulma and gave Vegeta a box of vintage jazz music records as a gift. The news took off like wildfire, with more families coming forward with their suspicions that day. Blacklands' stock price tanked, as expected, falling to $9 per share from $30 - a seventy percent decrease in value. Having lost so much money, furious stockholders would be out for blood from the company's leadership. Lawsuits would be filed within days. The Justice Department and the Securities and Exchange Commission would broaden their investigations into accounting practices that may have protected executives from losing _their money_. People would be covering their asses.

Bulma was curled up near the fireplace in the sitting room. She was both pleased and dissatisfied. Undoubtedly, with the government heavily involved, more people might be charged for criminal behavior, but the path was unclear. Where else did the money go? Who else got away with murder?

"Take another day to rest and enjoy the team's success," Vegeta said, handing her tea. "You can barely move."

Bulma scribbled on paper. "It's already Thursday, and I must leave home sometime, Vegeta." She touched her throat, annoyed by her hoarseness. "Television interviews, remember? I know Karen and Derek don't want to handle all of them."

"And what else, duchess?"

She smiled. "Mother said she threatened you."

"Yes, and I still didn't tell her everything. However, it's time that we should."

"I did share most of it with her, leaving out the Aidan part."

Tapping his foot on the floor, Vegeta looked away. "Jack asked me to stop by his place tonight for cigars."

Frustrated, Bulma held up a finger while she coughed. "Damn cigarettes. I'm not smoking ever again. All right, buddy, I'm better now. What aren't you telling me?"

"I should go."

She dropped her notepad. "Do not shut me out."

"I'm not. Just take care of that cough. It sounds worse than what I had. I'm returning to the office. We'll talk later. I promise."

"Okay. I'm holding you to that."

Vegeta planned to tell the police about the fight with Aidan. If they arrested and brought charges against him, it was a crap shoot whether he'd receive a felony conviction and serve jail time - but he also had Aidan's nasty tirade on record. He could then share his suspicions about his and Bulma's harassment and they could investigate. Jack would be left out, because he hadn't confessed to him about the fight. He would quit his job. That order of events felt right. But what if Aidan was innocent? Was this a grudge?

He sighed walking past the Briefs' kitchen. "I have worn out my welcome at Capsule Media. Time to get a lawyer."

"And your time is up for my answer," Bunny said, raising her martini glass to him. "What kind of legal counsel do you need?"

This old lady is more tenacious than a wildcat, he thought. "I hadn't meant to say that aloud."

Bunny chewed on an olive. "Honestly, this is becoming tedious. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. For someone so impressively handsome and intelligent, your behavior doesn't suit you. Furthermore, you cannot separate your difficulties from Bulma's. If you need a lawyer, then stop wasting time. I want to crush this problem posthaste. Do you have ideas about who could be involved? My instincts tell me something else might happen soon… or has it happened already?"

Vegeta looked down. "Yes and yes."

"Ah, that's more like it." Bunny took his arm as they walked together. "Fantastic work on the Blacklands story, by the way. I look forward to reading more. Share my compliment with Jackson."

"Thank you, and I will."

"One last thing, Mr. Prince. My daughter and you are making your interactions harder they should be. _Admit_ and _accept_ your feelings for each other and get the bloody hell on with it. Figure out how to love without fear – and have as much sex as possible until you can't anymore. Life passes quickly. I shouldn't have to say this, Marine."

Embarrassed, Vegeta rubbed his cheek. "I'm beginning to fear you."

She patted his back. "As you should!"

* * *

"Hey, Prince! Where the hell are you and Roshi, man? Stop working. We're all at the bar now. You're not dead in a ditch yet. Have a little fun."

Vegeta banged the phone receiver on his desk. "Mikey, if you call again I will pour soda on your new keyboard. I can't drink alcohol anymore, and Jack left early. I'm heading to his condo, and then he'll join you. I'm going home after that."

"Nah, I doubt that. You're going to see Bulma again."

"That's it! I am trashing your desk!"

"Calm down, Father Time. We know you two like each other. The secret is out. You didn't have to leave the team just for that, in my opinion. We were close to publishing anyway. Are you officially dating now?"

Vegeta hung up on Mike a third time and called Jack, who hadn't returned his text messages. He hoped the man wasn't drunk yet, especially since he had looked forward to smoking cigars together. The condominium's doorman already knew to let him in, so he took the elevator. Jack's door was cracked open and the radio was on, which was typical. A light scent wafted from the entrance reminiscent of burnt apricots and tobacco.

He knocked on the door. "Jackson, I'm coming in. I'm offended that you started without me."

Jack's body was curled on the floor near the sofa. Spittle and vomit covered his face and neck, and his eyes were wide open as if he had been choked. The cigar on the lamp stand had burnt out. Vegeta almost dropped his crutch getting to him, easing himself onto the floor to check the man's pulse - because his mind hadn't fully accepted that Jack had died. He leaned back against the sofa, panting. His eyes drifted toward the coffee table, where a plastic bag of cigars sat on top of a large envelope. The picture on the bag showed a giant plume of oleander – a beautiful evergreen plant, but one of the most toxic next to hemlock or foxglove. He recognized it from seeing so much when he traveled in California.

"Oh, god. This can't be happening." The vision of Jack frightened and dying alone filled him with intense grief and rage. Then, his emotions dulled. He opened a window, called 911, and contacted Alain.

"It's Prince. I think… I think Jack was poisoned."

Alain cleared his throat. "You are there with him then. Have you called the authorities?"

"Yes."

"Stay put, Vegeta. I will drive there now. Text me after the police and ambulance arrive. Then I will join you upstairs. You know what to do. Keep answers short and simple."

"Bulma?"

"I will tell her mother. Let's take care of you first, though. You are in danger from all sides now."

The police asked basic questions, but it took time. Vegeta had already stashed a cigar, wrapped carefully for examination later. Jack's death would assuredly send shock waves throughout the New York media establishment. Once it was considered murder, all hell would break loose. Every journalist at Capsule who respected Jack would line up to investigate. All Vegeta could do was think of Bulma.

Bunny clutched his hand when they returned. "Listen to me, son. _You will not blame yourself_. This was a vicious act, and I want this criminal's chopped head on a serving platter. Do not let my daughter or grandson see you with your head down."

"Does she know yet?"

"No. She's been sleeping since you left earlier. I took the laptop away. Come into the sitting room with me."

Vegeta stared forward. "She's up now."

Bulma stood at the end of the hall, coughing. "Mom, what's going on? What are you discussing, and where the hell is my laptop?"

"Let's have a seat, darling. You're out of breath."

"No, mother. _Tell me_ what happened."

Bunny looked over at Vegeta, who tilted his head toward the door.

"Let's go into the room, duchess. We need to talk."

Bunny took her hand, walking her to the sofa. Bulma sat straight as a board.

"How bad is it, professor?"

"Jack… is dead. I found him at the condo. We believe he was poisoned."

"No." Bulma looked down, shaking her head. "No, no, no!" Her screams filled the room, until she fell into Bunny's lap sobbing.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Bunny said. "We'll get through this."

"Someone _murdered_ my best friend, mother! My child's godfather! Jack loved me so much, and I didn't protect him. _We thought we were protecting him, but we didn't._ But he tried to protect you and me, Vegeta - and he was so fond of you. Oh, god! He respected you more than you'll ever know, and now he's dead. How could all of this happen so quickly? I just don't understand."

Bunny cupped Bulma's face in her hands. "Look into my eyes, baby. A line has been crossed. Jack would say that. _We are at war._ Cry as much as you need to, but keep that in mind. I believe you were targets long before those packages arrived."

"O'Malley and an accomplice could still be responsible for all we know," Alain said. "Vegeta, I finished where you left off today and told Mrs. Brief everything. We all share the same knowledge now, which means we can work more effectively."

Bulma's chest and stomach hurt. "I'm returning to bed. Do not disturb me until I'm ready to leave my room. That may not happen tomorrow. Trunks can come see me, though." The stress threw her into another coughing fit. She doubled over. Vegeta instinctively reached out for her, but she stepped back. "No. I'm okay. The cigarettes have caught up with me. That's all. I just need more rest."

"You do," Vegeta replied. "Get as much as you need." Her rejection hurt, but this wasn't about him. He left without another word.

Bulma returned to her mother's lap. She didn't speak for almost an hour until Bunny moved aside.

"Do not blame him, Bulma."

" _Mother,_ stop telling me what to do, all right? Can't I have an hour to mourn Jack without discussions of war and lawyers? It's acceptable to not want anyone around me. I also have to face the entire office soon."

Bunny knew better, but she poured herself a glass of vodka with no ice. "I wasn't trying to be insensitive, darling. I loved Jack too because of the way he cared for you. I'm just scared for you, I guess. We almost lost you during your last major depression, and you've been through so much. _Someone will pay dearly for this._ I'm glad I finally know everything."

Bulma covered her face. "Oh, god. Vegeta."

"What?"

"Remember what I told you about his wife?"

Bunny sipped from her glass, relieved that Bulma had remembered. "What about it?"

"I need to find him."

Bunny frowned. "It's colder tonight, and maybe you should see the doctor before doing anything else. Call Vegeta. He'll return."

"He wouldn't tonight, mom. He's hurt and likely blaming himself more after what I said. I know where he is. Come with me. I won't stay out long."

"Where then?"

"The Brooklyn Promenade. He goes there to think."

Bulma cried silently on her mother's shoulder while Alain drove. Bunny recited poetry to calm her. They both wore black wool coats and mink hats to stay warm - at the older woman's insistence. Alain walked behind them after leaving the car, with his hand planted firmly on his gun. Vegeta hadn't ventured far enough to make their walk unbearable, but the chilly winds passing over the river weren't helping. He looked unhappy to see them.

"None of you should be here," he shouted.

"And why would that be, Mr. Prince?" Bunny shouted back. "We are all adults. Now make this quick, damn it!"

Bulma approached him. "You mean I shouldn't be here."

"Especially you, Bulma. It's astounding how you compartmentalize like this - not giving two shits about your well-being but expecting others to. You are ill, and you're in shock from losing Jack. You _were right_ to want time alone. That's why I left. I admit, some of what you said hurt, but I understand how you feel because I've been there."

"Yes." Wiping tears, Bulma hugged him. "You are so skilled at making _me_ feel like a complete jackass. Could you be a little less understanding sometimes?"

"Be careful what you ask for. I still have a million-and-one ways to do that. What did you say to me that one time? Oh, I remember. I have a massive stick up my tight ass."

Bulma coughed again while they embraced. Her entire chest jerked from the force. She leaned on the guardrail to steady herself, rubbing her chest. "I'm okay."

Vegeta checked her pulse and felt her forehead. "No, you're wheezing, and you're burning up. Stop protesting." He waved at Bunny and Alain. "Let's get her to an emergency room. She getting worse."

"We'll admit her to a private suite, with security, at New York-Presbyterian Hospital," Bunny said. "You will be fine, dear."

"I know that _mother_ ," Bulma said crossly. "I want to go home!" Suddenly confused, she staggered. "What's… going on? Vegeta?"

Alain picked her up. "We have oxygen masks and first aid tools in the SUV. It's faster if I drive."

Bunny held Vegeta's arm as they sat together. "Do you think she was poisoned too?"

"No," he whispered, "but I think you know that already."

"Yes, Mr. Prince, but even old warhorses like me still need encouragement sometimes. You are the white mice for this monster's treacherous maze. Murdering you… or my precious daughter now wouldn't be as entertaining or satisfying, I suppose."

Vegeta squeezed her hand. "You don't have to say Mr. Prince anymore. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

 **Hi, everyone! Thanks for the questions and comments about the cliffhanger action as well as the lemony stuff. Glad you liked it. I had more to think about afterward.**


	13. Dirty Work

Bunny adjusted the sheets on her daughter's bed. Either that or buy cigarettes herself, which she hadn't done since she married. Her husband quit when Bulma was 15. He always felt partially responsible for his daughter's descent into tobacco's iron grip, and she was defiant about not quitting - even though she exercised to keep an attractive body, of course, and kept a breakneck work schedule.

The gorgeous hospital room was equipped with every luxurious comfort families could want, including a four-star restaurant menu. None of that could stop death if it wanted you, though, and Bulma was still in intensive care. Vegeta considered this while seated at her bedside. Pneumonia could hit some people quickly, even those who may have started out with normal illnesses like colds. She happened to be an unlucky one.

"Mrs. Brief, an inflammation of the lining in both lungs is causing Bulma's chest pain, which means she may not be able clear them well or cough up mucus effectively. We must help her with that. She was admitted with an 85 percent blood oxygen level. Values under 90 percent are considered low. That smoking of hers hasn't helped, certainly. She of all people should have known better."

Stone faced, Bunny lifted her chin. "Doctor Sims, with all due respect, while I understand your cavalier comments about Bulma's smoking – a fact of which we're well aware - it doesn't deal with my daughter's immediate medical needs. But don't worry about us rich folks if it happens again, darling. Worry about an ethics investigation that I'll request from your chief medical officer. I suspect that your judgmental evaluations may be worse and, perhaps, even nastier with poorer patients."

Impressed with Bunny's deft takedown, Vegeta almost did a one-legged dance across the room. Her tongue was sharper than a machete.

"I didn't mean to offend you, madam," the embarrassed doctor said. "I can assure you that all of my patients receive good care."

"Continue then, young man."

Sims showed her the medical chart. "Bulma is incredibly strong considering how sick she really is. We're bringing her fever down."

Vegeta tried to contain his irritation. " _Doctor,_ for all that is good and holy, would you please get the point?"

"Uh, yes, sir. As you know, we drained fluid from her lungs to ease her pain. She must stay on oxygen therapy and will need breathing treatments in addition to the antibiotics. Full recovery without symptoms may take up to a month, but if all goes well she could be released from here in about two weeks or less. She was admitted with early sepsis, the clinical term for a blood infection resulting from her pneumonia, but I'm confident about her recovery. I'm sorry I didn't address you directly. I didn't know you were married."

Sensing his growing impatience, Bunny pressed hard on Vegeta's shoulder. "That will be all, doctor," she said, looking down. "We're all exhausted. Thank you."

Vegeta leaned back as Sims hurried out. "What did you think I would do to the guy, Bunny? Throw him over the balcony? Your death grip on my shoulder kind of hurt."

She chuckled. "You? To hell with you, Vegeta. I was thinking about myself."

"I'm...trying to rest," Bulma said weakly. "Shut up."

Vegeta gave Bunny his chair and stood back.

"Daughter, like Jack said, you are a mean old honey badger to the end." She wiped her eyes. "Save your strength."

Bulma smiled. "I'm… _not_ old." She clutched her mother's finger. "Don't...cry, sweetie. I'm okay. Really."

Knowing that Bulma would return to sleep soon, Vegeta left them alone. Seeing her condition worsen upset him considerably, but she didn't need to worry about him worrying. The suite had a sofa bed next to her room, where he soon fell asleep. He hadn't intended to. Bunny covered him with a blanket and called Alain from a separate bedroom.

"Alain, would you get Mr. Prince a change of clothing from his home now, please? I'm not sure how long he'll stay here, but I want him comfortable – and then I want you to sleep through the afternoon or longer since it's already 3 a.m. – or just take the day or two off. I'm satisfied with the security here and at home."

"I'll get the clothing," Alain replied. "Not sure about the sleeping, though. I'm glad Vegeta finally agreed to give me access to his house. We must conduct a security sweep tomorrow since he wants to stay there. Your cellular and home phones are being retrofitted to encrypt all communications and prevent cyber-hacking. How is Bulma?"

"Very sick, honey. The doctor tried to be reassuring, but I want her under no stress. No laptop and no news - not even a goddamn neighborhood pamphlet. Alain, I should have…"

"Stop it, Mrs. Brief. We share responsibility - but hell, Bulma probably would've sneaked out anyway. At least we were there. Separately, Jack's death was announced officially. Phones have rung nonstop. Journalists never sleep, apparently. I will inform Capsule executives later today about Bulma. They can't reveal her condition to anyone at the office without your permission."

Bunny looked over at the sofa. "Does it sound like I care about callers? My daughter can barely speak. Vegeta will have a rough day at the office, but he has my permission to tell some people confidentially. He'll choose wisely - and he's a tough bastard."

Alain laughed. "Indeed he is. I'll have everything he needs, ma'am. You really like him, don't you?"

Bunny sat down to review family pictures on her phone. "Men like you and my husband and Vegeta are special. He and Bulma have a good chance together if their neuroses don't screw it up – and we'll all live to fight another day. I was emotional about Jack yesterday. Now I'm not, so I'll make this plain. I do want this person dead or underneath a prison. It's my turn to walk my daughter down the aisle when she marries again. No one gets in the way of that."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll have your clothing delivered too. Trunks will join you this morning after leaving Billy's house. I had someone staked out there."

"My grandson will be fine – even more so because Vegeta is here."

* * *

Vegeta had awakened shortly after 7 a.m. next to a rack with fresh clothes and accessories. He wondered at first if they didn't expect him to change his underwear. He always carried an extra pair in his bag – a quirk. After washing up he sat next to Bulma. He wanted to see her eyes open again, needing that reassurance before facing the day ahead. Praying to any god for healing and peace of mind had been foreign to him for years. He was agnostic, and yet he had carried Berta's rosary the entire week - the foul-mouthed, devil-may-care, skeptical heathen who supported science and reason. But he remembered the nuns who were kind to him during his boyhood; who encouraged him to be a passionate learner despite his father's terrible nurturing; who took him in when he felt lost. Maybe that's why he recited the ritualistic prayers near her, because of the comfort they provided. He didn't want Bulma hurting like this and would've moved heaven and earth to stop it. He hoped that nothing took her from him so early, but if that happened he would do his best to endure it – because she would expect him to. They each met their match when neither expected or wanted it.

He had to do something about the medication, though. He could have tried other drugs, but his doctor warned that some might not be as effective to treat his pain. He was moving around better, having sex pleasurably, and continuing to exercise – freedoms that others take for granted. These pills had relaxed him more, soothing the worst of his depressive episodes as well. He had taken more the night when he was in Long Island, before Bulma called about the pictures. He took more after seeing his father. That high felt particularly welcoming and beautiful. He even played classical music in his library that day, directing to an invisible orchestra _tempo giusto_ – in exact time. He took more after leaving Bulma's house, after telling her about Jack. He wasn't cold walking on the Promenade that night because the pills warmed him. Having her embrace him there made the high even better.

Recovering from his injuries was hellish before and after he left the Marine Corps, yet he handled the physical pain well for years without heavy medication. But he was older now. One's body changes, inevitably, even while fit. This behavior, however, had become more mental than physical. He opened the bottle and took the correct dose. Nothing more. He would be fine. It had only been a month.

He fell asleep again at her bedside. Something soft touched his head shortly thereafter. Yawning, he rubbed his cheek on Bulma's hand.

"Mmm. You're not dead in a ditch, I see."

She thumped his forehead. "Ass."

"You love it, duchess."

She touched her side, wincing. "Hurts."

He brushed hair away from her eyes. "Yes, I know. You just have to rest. There's no hurry. We have… all the time in the world. I wanted to see you before leaving for the office. Your nurses are coming, which means I'm getting kicked out anyway. Bunny is asleep in the other room. Someone will be here at all times. I'll be back later."

"You…better."

The guards nodded respectfully as he left. One guard rubbed his chin to get Vegeta's attention. He felt his face, realizing that he hadn't shaved properly in days. His vanity said Bulma and Bunny must prefer the hairy shadow. That absurdity amused him.

Walking alone to the office didn't bother him. He had an engineering craftsman equip all of his crutches and canes with weaponry long ago, including retractable spikes. He trained with them, kendo-style, and only he could activate them for self-defense. If pushed to the ground he'd fight like an angry tiger with them – excruciating pain or not. But Bunny was right: His tormentor didn't want an easy kill. Each aggression would be planned, theatrical, and gradually more distressing. Like an artist – or serial killer - a unique mark would be left. The perpetrator expected his or her cunning to be recognized and respected. Anger and lust for power drove them. Perhaps Vegeta's attention was the only response that mattered – and, to a lesser degree, Bulma's. Public attention could be a useful tool for the person but not required. Bad boys move in silence – until they don't.

Being in the newsroom before other daytime reporters was wishful thinking. A small crowd had gathered near his and Bulma's desks. Some people were crying. They all moved aside, waiting for him to speak. He couldn't. Someone brave had to step up.

"Mr. Prince, where have you been? Everyone – everyone - here has tried reaching you and Ms. Brief. Are you okay? Have you seen her?"

"I'm fine, Christos. Yes, I've seen Bulma, and she knows about Jack. I won't discuss more. Respect my wishes, please."

Christos nodded. "I understand, sir. We were just worried about you. The news about Roshi has devastated the office."

"Yes," Vegeta said, closing his eyes. "I know and appreciate your concern – all of you. Let's go now, kid. We'll all be fine...in time. Worrying about me consumes too much geeky brainpower necessary for your job."

He followed Christos to the war room and messaged the investigative team, who all arrived within 90 minutes. Mike, who felt closest to Vegeta of all the reporters, brought breakfast for everyone.

"Guys, I apologize for worrying you." Vegeta paused to study their somber faces. "Jack's death has been overwhelming for me. I found him dead. I wanted you to know first rather than hearing from anonymous sources, which you will."

"Go on," Mike said. "We can deal with it."

Vegeta leaned on the wall. "The police will investigate the circumstances around his death, of course, which means I am considered a suspect until they decide otherwise."

"So they think Jack might have been murdered?"

"I don't know, Joy, but I know you bullheaded reporters will try to find out." He looked down. "The other bad news is, duchess is... is in the hospital. She has pneumonia that caused septicemia, which they caught early before it wrecked her body. That's why you couldn't find us. She's very ill and heartbroken about Jack. It will be tough for a while."

Mike grasped Vegeta's shoulder while the others sat silently. "What do you both need? There's more to this, isn't there?"

"Monday is my last day at Capsule, but don't worry about me. Do good work and honor Jack for his lifetime of phenomenal achievements. You all know how to keep your mouths shut, so keep the news about Bulma quiet. She cares a lot for you, but she can't have many visitors. That's why I'm telling you - and stop crying for now because seeing you like this is hard enough for me. Now get out of my sight, soldiers. I can't… do hugs today."

Mike sat down after everyone else left. "This is a lot to take in."

Vegeta pointed sharply at the door. "Mikey, get out of here means you too."

"Dude, can you drop the stoic, strong-man bullshit for five minutes? _This hurts._ Acknowledge it."

Vegeta pounded the table. "Brat, I'm _the last person_ anyone should lecture about pain. Unless you want to get kicked in the nuts, try a different brand of empathy."

Eyes brightening from the challenge, Mike grinned. "All right then. Try this. You can't quit your job until I get advice on my next story."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I said it, man. You want me to honor Jack, so help me out. You're my mentor now. I need a crabby, crutch-wielding, fucking savage editor to argue with daily. It's better than drinking Irish coffee in the morning."

Vegeta snorted and hurled a wad of paper at him. "No, Mikey. I trust that you can handle the job, whatever it is. There are other fine editors, and you're one of the most talented reporters here. Here's my advice. Be determined, but don't be impulsive or arrogant. Don't let your pursuit of the story and the people involved cloud good judgment. Never allow others to provoke you. Don't get in the way of the facts. Let them speak for themselves when you write, because there's more than one way to ask a question. I'm great at my job, but throughout my career I've made these mistakes and paid for them. Others have paid for them. I expect you to do better – to surpass me - in every way. I respect you."

Mike choked up. "Thanks, man." I'll keep Bulma in my thoughts – and you too. Are you staying close to her for a while?"

Vegeta waved from behind as he exited. "You'll all be the first to know about duchess. Clean up your appearance, too. Your horrid crying face might scare little kids."

Mike removed a flash drive from his pocket after Vegeta left. Someone sent it to him a month earlier, with a note saying that more copies and materials were stashed elsewhere. If the information was accurate, he had a blockbuster story on his hands. Now he had a paper trail to follow. Only one person could have mapped the details so meticulously. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Just what kind of trouble are you in, sergeant?"

Handing over information about Aidan might lead anywhere, but it would end somewhere. Vegeta knew his mentee wouldn't stop. He wanted Mike to rip him apart, show no mercy, and question _his motives_ for giving him the project, because the editors had to believe the story was worth doing. Even if Aidan weren't his tormentor, Vegeta knew the sexual harassment angle had power behind it. Murder might not be too far behind. But he had been arrogant and became distracted. Pursuing Aidan personally - rather than the story – clouded his good judgment.

* * *

Bunny ensured that her brother-in-law would arrive after Vegeta left. She sat in a private room drinking coffee. Jimmy walked in with bloodshot eyes, looking disheveled. He got on her nerves, but she had often felt sorry for him. Today, however, wasn't it.

"Bunny, why can't I see my little girl yet? And what's all the security for?"

"She hasn't been your little girl for years, Jimmy - or mine. Turn off all digital devices you're carrying and put them on the table. Also empty your pockets, remove your shoes, jewelry, and belt. Put everything in the safe over there. The room is soundproof. I had it constructed for the hospital."

Her politely snappish tone prepared him for a forthcoming argument. Jimmy chewed harder on the toothpick hanging from his mouth. He always agreed to these requests because of her past kindness to him. He had been in trouble before, and over the years Bunny tried to help him overcome his resentment against her husband.

He removed his top shirt for inspection. "Okay, 'M.' I'm not wearing any surveillance wires either. So, uh, where is the disabled James Bond? I know he's got a crush on doll. It's disgraceful."

Bunny bit her lip. "Look here, James Brief, _I don't give a damn_ about your petty feud. Bulma is extremely sick, and Vegeta has been by her side. Considering Jack's untimely death, among other things, her recovery may take longer. Don't worsen the situation."

"I take it that you're unhappy with me about something, Barbara. Get on with it."

"What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Jimmy threw his hands up. "Oh, come on! You're thinking the worst of me too? Prince is trying to ruin me, I tell you!"

"Just because I'm in my seventies doesn't mean I don't know people," Bunny replied icily. "They're not all dead, and the government intelligence community runs deep. Whatever you're doing, get out of it. You're in above your head, and I'll be damned if anyone in my family gets hurt because of your pride. I will fucking shoot you myself, without remorse – or have someone else do it. Going to jail at this age means _nothing_ to me."

Jimmy eyes flashed angrily. "Barbara, you better damn well say what this is about. There are only so many threats I'm willing to tolerate from you. Wait - do you think something strange happened with Jack? Has someone threatened Bulma?"

"I'm doing you a favor," Bunny said, touching his chest gently. "Despite my last words, I would prefer you alive rather than dead. Keep your hands clean, because others are waiting for you to dirty them. You wouldn't fare as well in prison or with heaven's angels as I would."

Jimmy removed her hand. "Dame, you give yourself way too much credit. Can I see doll now?"

"Not for long. They're bathing her soon."

"It's that bad? She can't move?"

"Go in, Jimmy. Think about what I said. Your belongings stay here until you leave. Use those walking slippers over there."

Bunny wondered how police detectives would investigate forensic evidence from Jack's house – if they did at all. That was her next problem. She still hadn't decided whether Vegeta's plan to turn himself in – however noble – was the wisest plan. Thinking that he was trying to throw them off, the police could accuse him of Jack's death instead of investigating Aidan or anyone else properly. Increased fear about Bulma's safety could hamper Vegeta's shrewdness. But she was likely underestimating him. She tapped on her phone until an arm encircled her waist to ease her tension.

"It certainly took you long enough to arrive, Charles."

"Barbara, it is a nine-hour trip from Sao Paulo. I'm not as flexible as I used to be – except during sex."

They kissed.

* * *

Vegeta wasn't thrilled about the planned security sweep of his house. He wanted to be there overnight, after seeing Bulma. He hadn't spoken with Sal and Berta, but he had to say something soon. They had to stay safe too, and, kindly, Alain had their place watched.

As much as Vegeta wanted to live normally it was better to lie low. He didn't want the Briefs to carry his weight, but Bunny was well-connected and furious. Perhaps she was biding her time, teaching him a superior level of patience.

His phone rang again.

 _Keep the egotistical bastard talking._ Those were his instructions. Collect tiny fragments of evidence to construct and study the criminal.

He had moved past much of his anger to listen. Almost all humans want to be heard in some way. Reporting taught him that. This person knew more about his childhood than he'd written about, and not merely from private investigation. They must have met in some way back then. Did they attend Catholic school together?

"Sergeant, I apologize for my rudeness. I didn't tell you my name during our last chat. I am Kelly."

"Am I supposed to be excited?" Vegeta said flatly. "You picked a terrible nom de guerre."

"Don't get cocky, pretty boy. I like my war name."

Vegeta faked a yawn. "Now that you've finished jacking-off verbally, tell me your life's story. Did someone steal your Legos as a child?"

"What makes us so different, sergeant? Nature or nurture? Given your upbringing, perhaps you could've become a sicko like me. I would almost feel jealous if I didn't prefer my current lifestyle. You made it out of your terrible childhood by sheer force of will. Now you're a decorated Marine who's tried to live valiantly as a well-respected author and journalist. But, but, but – I see through it! You still crave another way of life and the power that comes with it, like those sneaky corporate guys who never go to jail. With your mind, you could've been one the most successful organized crime bosses in the U.S. Your ne'er-do-well father must have known. He just couldn't let his kid outshine him in any way – honestly or dishonestly."

"I am nothing like you."

"Vegeta, let me be clear. I am allowing you to roam the streets freely. Tracking you constantly wastes my time. Same with Bulma. Most criminal behavior researchers will say that people like me are often hidden in plain sight. Therefore you must watch your back with everyone, including those with whom you feel most comfortable. That's the beauty of being in my position. How will trust dissolve between you and Bulma and her family? Because it will, my friend. _Trust me on that._ Your handsome face and lofty position at Capsule brought me out into the open. I just needed to be near you - and now you're the dangerous albatross around the necks of others. How does it feel? I love having you all to myself."

"You sure do like hearing your own voice."

Kelly laughed. "I do! I do! It's raspy and rich, just like yours. You don't think it's sexy? I've practiced vocals for at least a year."

"What do you want?"

"I want… you to be my friend," Kelly replied quietly. "You don't need Bulma or Jack – or even that sweet old couple with the pizza place. I know about them too. You're intrigued because you and I share similarities. I like animals too! I can be a good friend if you allow me, Vegeta."

"Okay, Kelly. Let me be clear. You're right. I cannot run from my past. That said, although I rejected thug life, _I am well-schooled in it_ \- and you're no thug. Be a man, or whatever alien creature you are, and stop phone-stalking me like a little bitch. You're clever enough. Show some respect for your opponent and face me honorably. Maybe we can be friends after that. I might even buy you a drink… or a puppy."

"I'll take you up on that offer soon enough, Spike. Oh, and don't give me that bullshit about not enjoying our chats. Unsolved cases arouse you as much as hot sex – perhaps even more. Also, keep this in mind. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."

Vegeta recognized the last line. In Kelly's mind, Vegeta was Sherlock Holmes, while he was Dr. Moriarty - the criminal mastermind. And Moriarty often had helpers do his dirty work.

If only he knew. That was a separate discussion with Alain, though. He needed to see Bulma again first. He was already under police surveillance, which wasn't exactly a bad thing after that revolting conversation with Kelly.

Charles and Trunks were sitting on opposite sides of her bed when he arrived at the hospital. The boy remained still, waiting his grandfather to speak.

He patted Bulma's arm and looked up. "Well, Mr. Prince, everyone seems to think highly of you. Tell me why I should, considering my daughter's current condition. While you were gone, the doctors said the sepsis may have hurt her kidneys somewhat."

Vegeta almost lost his breath. "I'm… I'm not expecting you to, sir." He looked at Bulma, whose face was slightly swollen.

"Good answer. Now take my seat and hold my baby's hand. She'll be fine. Don't worry, my boy. I am one of the best medical researchers on Earth, with the most brilliant minds working with me. If her condition doesn't improve, then we will try an experimental therapy - but I don't think we'll need to."

"Yes, Dr. Brief."

Charles hit the chair with his cane. "Dinner will be ready soon. I hope you like prime rib. Maybe my research team can help with your hip and leg too – although that crutch of yours is rather interesting. We will discuss our _other troubles_ later, yes?"

* * *

 **Hi there. Your comments about Bunny from the last chapter had me tickled and delighted. Thanks for sticking with me, folks. I appreciate hearing from you! XOXOXO!**


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